57
When a man has nothing to call his own, he finds ways of acquiring other men’s possessions.
This house is an example. The Arab businessman is still away, gone south for the winter like a migrating bird. A housekeeper opens the place up when he’s due back, fluffing up the pillows and airing the rooms. There’s also a gardener who comes in twice a week during the summer, but only once a month now because the grass has stopped growing and the leaves have been raked into moulding drifts.
The house is as I remember, tall and ungainly with a turret room overlooking the bridge. A weathervane faces permanently east. The curtains are drawn. Windows and doors are secured.
The garden is soggy and smells of decay. A rope swing is broken, frayed at one end, dangling halfway between a branch and the ground. I cross beneath it, skirting the garden furniture, and stand before a wooden shed. The door is padlocked. Crouching on my haunches, I press a pick into the keyhole and feel it bounce over the pins. The first lock I ever learned to pick was like this one. I practiced for hours sitting in front of the TV.
The barrel turns. I unhook the padlock from the latch and pull the door open, letting light leak across the dirt floor. Metal shelves hold plastic flowerpots, seed trays and old paint tins. Garden tools stand in the corner. A ride-on lawnmower is parked at the centre.
I step back and look at the dimensions of the shed. There’s just enough room for me to stand. Then I start clearing the metal shelves and wrestling them to one side. I roll the lawn mower onto the grass and begin moving the paint cans and bags of fertiliser to the garage.
The back wall of the shed is now clear. I take a pickaxe and swing it at the floor. The compacted earth breaks into a jagged jigsaw of dried mud. I swing the pick again and again, pausing occasionally to shovel the soil away. After an hour I stop and rest, crouching and holding my forehead to the handle of the spade. I drink from the hosepipe outside. The hole in the floor is ten inches deep and almost as long as the wall. It’s long enough to fit the sheet of plasterboard I found in the garage. I want to make it deeper.
Setting to work again, I carry buckets of earth to the end of the garden and hide the soil amid the compost heap. I am ready to build the box now. The sun is dropping through the branches of the trees. Perhaps I should check on the girl.
Inside the house, in a second floor bedroom, she is lying on an iron-framed bed with a bare mattress. Dressed in a striped top, a cardigan, jeans and sneakers, she is curled up in a ball, trying to make herself invisible.
She cannot see me- her eyes are taped. Her hands are secured behind her back with white plastic ties and her feet are chained together with just enough width to allow her to hobble. She cannot go far. A noose is looped around her neck, tied off on a radiator, with just enough slack to allow her to reach a small bathroom with a sink and toilet. She doesn’t realise it yet. Like a blind kitten she clings to the softness of the bed, unwilling to explore.
She speaks.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
She listens.
‘Hello… anyone… can you hear me?’
Louder this time: ‘HELP! PLEASE HELP! HELP!’
I press record. The tape turns. Scream, little one, scream as loud as you can.
A small lamp throws light across the room but not as far as my corner. She tests the bindings on her wrists, twisting her shoulders to the left and right, trying to slide her hands free. The plastic ties are cutting into her skin.
Her head hits the wall. She turns on her back, raising her legs and kicks both feet at once against the wood panelling. The whole house seems to shake. She kicks again and again, full of fear and frustration.
She arches backwards, bending her spine, forming a bridge between her shoulders and her feet. Raising her legs in the air in a half shoulder stand, she pivots at the waist, dropping her knees to her chest and then further until they touch the bed on either side of her head. She has folded herself into a ball. Now she slides her bound wrists past the small of her back, over her hips and under her backside. Surely she’s going to dislocate something.
Her hands squeeze past her feet and she can unfurl her legs again. How clever! Her hands are now in front of her instead of behind. She pulls off her tape blindfold and turns towards the lamp. She still cannot see me in my dark corner.
Hooking her fingers through the noose around her neck, she lifts it free and then stares at her chained feet and the plastic ties on her wrists. She’s broken the skin. Blood weeps over the white strips.
I cup my hands and smash them together. The mock applause echoes like pistol shots in the quietness of the room. The girl screams and tries to run but the chains around her ankles send her sprawling to the floor.
I grab the back of her neck and pin her down under my weight, straddling her body, feeling the air being squeezed from her lungs. Grabbing her hair, I pull her head backward and whisper in her ear.
‘You’re a very clever girl, Snowflake. I’m going to have to do a better job this time.’
‘No! No! No! Please. Let me go.’
The first loop of masking tape covers her nose, sealing off the airway. The next loop covers her eyes. I do it roughly, dragging her hair. She thrashes her head as more tape loops around her forehead and her chin, encasing her in plastic. Soon only her mouth is exposed. When she opens it to scream, I slide the hose pipe between her lips and teeth, into the back of her throat. She gags. I pull it out a little. More tape loops around her head, screeching as I drag it from the spool.
Her world has become dark. I can hear her breath whistling through the hose.
I speak to her softly. ‘Listen to me, Snowflake. Don’t fight. The harder you struggle, the more difficult it is to breathe.’
She is still wrestling at my arms. I hold a finger over the end of the hose, blocking off her air supply. Her body stiffens in panic.
‘That’s how easy it is, Snowflake. I can stop you breathing with one finger. Nod, if you understand.’
She nods. I take my finger away. She sucks air through the hose.
‘Breathe normally,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a panic attack, nothing more.’
I lift her back onto the bed: she curls into a ball.
‘Do you remember the room?’ I ask.
She nods.
‘There’s a toilet about eight feet to your right, beside a sink. You can reach it. I’ll show you.’
Hauling her upright, I put her feet on the floor and count the steps as she hobbles forward to the sink. I put her hands on the edge of the basin. ‘The cold tap is on the right.’
Then I show her the toilet, making her sit.
‘I’m going to leave your hands in front of you but if you take off the mask, I will punish you. Do you understand?’
She doesn’t respond.
‘I will close off the hosepipe unless you acknowledge my question. Will you leave the mask alone?’
She nods.
I take her back to the bed and sit her upright. Her breathing is steadier. Her narrow chest rises and falls. Stepping backwards, I turn on her mobile phone and wait for the screen to light. Then I press the camera function and capture the image.
‘Be quiet now. I have to go out for a while. I’ll bring you back something to eat.’
She shakes her head, sobbing into the mask.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t be long.’
I walk out of the house and down the steps. There is a garage within a copse of trees. My van is parked inside, next to a Range Rover that belongs to the Arab. He very helpfully left the keys on a hook in the pantry, alongside a dozen others, neatly labelled for the electricity box and the mailbox. Strangely, I couldn’t find one for the shed. Not to worry.
‘We shall take the Range Rover today,’ I announce to myself.
‘Very good, sir.’
A Ferrari Spider one day, a Range Rover the next- life is good.
The garage door rises automatically. Gravel murmurs beneath the tyres.
When
I reach Bridge Road I turn right and right again into Clifton Down Road, weaving through Victoria Square and along Queen’s Road. Shoppers are spilling onto the footpaths and Sunday afternoon traffic clogs the intersections. I turn into a multi-storey car park beside the Bristol Ice Rink and swing up the concrete ramps, looking for an open space.
The Range Rover locks with a reassuring clunk and a flash of lights. I walk down the stairs and out into the open, following Frogmore Street until I can mingle with the shoppers and tourists.
The curving facade of the Council House is ahead of me and beyond that the cathedral. Traffic lights change. Gears engage. An open-top bus trundles past spouting diesel fumes. I wait at the lights and turn on the mobile. The screen lights up with a singsong tune.
Menu. Options. Last number dialled.
She answers hopefully. ‘Charlie?’
‘Hello, Julianne, did you miss me?’
‘I want to speak to Charlie.’
‘I’m afraid she’s busy.’
‘I need to know she’s OK.’
‘Trust me.’
‘No. Let me hear her.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
I press the play button. The tape turns. Charlie’s screams are filling her ears, shredding her heart; opening the cracks a little wider in her mind.
I stop the tape. Julianne’s breath is vibrating.
‘Is your husband listening?’
‘No.’
‘What did he say about me?’
‘He says you won’t hurt Charlie. He says you don’t hurt children.’
‘And you believe him.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What else did he say about me?’
‘He says you want to punish women… to punish me. But I’ve done nothing to hurt you. Charlie has done nothing. Please, let me talk to her.’
Her whining voice is starting to annoy me.
‘Have you ever been unfaithful, Julianne?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying to me. You’re just like all the others. You’re a conniving, two-faced, backstabbing slut with a pesthole between your legs and another on your face.’
A woman pedestrian has overheard me. Her eyes go wide. I lean closer and say, ‘Boo!’ She trips over herself trying to get away.
Crossing the road, I walk through the gardens in the cathedral plaza. Mothers push prams. Older couples sit on benches. Pigeons flutter in the eaves.
‘I’m going to ask you again, Julianne, have you ever been unfaithful.’
‘No,’ she sobs.
‘What about with your boss? You make all those phone calls to him. You stay with him in London.’
‘He’s a friend.’
‘I’ve heard you talking to him, Julianne. I heard what you said.’
‘No… no. I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘That’s because the police are listening to the call,’ I say. ‘You’re terrified your husband might learn the truth. Shall I tell him?’
‘He knows the truth.’
‘Shall I tell him you grew tired of lying in his bed, looking at his spotty back, and had an affair?’
‘Please don’t. I just want to talk to Charlie.’
I peer through the misty rain at the buildings on the far side of Park Street. Silhouetted on the roof of the Wine Museum is a phone tower. It’s probably the closest.
‘I know this call is being recorded, Julianne. It must be a real party line. And your job is to keep me on the phone for as long as possible so they can track the signal.’
She hesitates. ‘No.’
‘You’re not a very good liar. I’ve worked with some of the best liars, but they never lied to me for long.’
Crossing College Green in the shadow of the cathedral, I glance along Anchor Road. There must be fifteen phone towers within half a mile of here. How long will it take them to find me?
‘Charlie is very flexible, isn’t she? The way she can bend her body. She can put her knees behind her ears. She’s making me very happy.’
‘Please don’t touch her.’
‘It’s far too late for that. You should be hoping I don’t kill her.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Ask your husband.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Why’s that? Have you two had a fight? Did you kick him out? Do you blame him for this?’
‘What do you want from us?’
‘I want what he has.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I want what’s mine.’
‘Your wife and daughter are dead.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Tyler, but we haven’t done anything to hurt you. Please let Charlie go.’
‘Have her periods started?’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘I want to know if she’s ovulating. Maybe I’ll put a baby in her. You can be a grandmother, a glamorous granny.’
‘Take me instead.’
‘Why would I want a grandmother? I’ll be honest with you, Julianne, you’re a fine looking woman, but I prefer your daughter. It’s not that I’m into little girls. I’m not a pervert. You see, Julianne, when I fuck her, I’m going to be fucking you. When I hurt her, I’m going to be hurting you. I can touch you in ways that you can’t even imagine, without laying a finger on you.’
I look up and down the street and cross over. People walk around me, occasionally jostling my shoulder and apologising. My eyes scan the street ahead.
‘I’ll do anything you want,’ she sobs.
‘Anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re going to have to prove it.’
‘How?’
‘You have to show me.’
‘OK, but only if you show me Charlie.’
‘I can do that. I’ll let you see her right now. I’m sending you something.’
I press a button and the photograph transmits. I wait, listening for her reaction. There it is! It’s a sharp intake of breath, the strangled cry. She is lost for words, staring at her daughter’s head, encased in masking tape, breathing through a tube.
‘Give my regards to your husband, Julianne. Tell him he’s running out of time.’
Police cars are heading south along St Augustine’s Parade. I step onto a bus heading north, watching the police pass in the opposite direction. I lean my head against the window and look down the Christmas Steps, falling away to my right.
Five minutes later, I step off the bus in Lower Maudlin Street before the roundabout. Stretching my arms above my head, I feel the vertebrae crack and pop along my spine.
The bus has turned the corner. Wedged between two seats, in a hamburger wrapper, the mobile phone is still transmitting. Out of sight and out of mind.
58
Sniffy nudges her bony head into my ankle, purring as she rubs her body along my calf and twirls to come back again. She’s hungry. I open the refrigerator and find a half-open can of cat food covered in foil. I spoon some into her bowl and pour her some milk.
The kitchen table is covered with the debris of the day. Emma had cheese sandwiches and juice for lunch. She didn’t eat the crusts. Charlie used to be the same. ‘My hair is curly enough,’ she told me at age five. ‘I think I’ve had enough crusts.’
I will never forget seeing Charlie born. She arrived two weeks late, on a bitter January night. I guess she wanted to stay somewhere warm. The obstetrician induced her with Prostaglandin and told us the drug would take eight hours to work so he was going home to bed. Julianne went into accelerated labour and was fully dilated within three hours. There wasn’t enough time for the obstetrician to get back to the hospital. A big black midwife delivered Charlie, ordering me around the delivery suite like a puppy that needed housetraining.
Julianne didn’t want me looking ‘at the business end’, she said. She wanted me to stay up next to her face, w
iping her brow and holding her hand. I didn’t follow orders. Once I saw the dark-haired crown of the baby’s head appear between her thighs, I wasn’t going anywhere. I had a front row seat for the best show in town.
‘It’s a girl,’ I said to Julianne.
‘Are you sure?’
I looked again. ‘Oh, yeah.’
Then I seem to remember there was competition to see which of us would cry first- the baby or me. Charlie won because I cheated and hid my face. I had never been so satisfied taking total credit for something I had so little to do with.
The midwife handed me the scissors to cut the umbilical cord. She swaddled Charlie and handed her to me. It was Charlie’s birthday, yet I was the one getting all the presents. I carried her across to a mirror and stared at our reflections. She opened the bluest of eyes and looked at me. To this day, I have never been looked at like that.
Julianne had passed out, exhausted. Charlie did the same. I wanted to wake her up. I mean, what child sleeps through her birthday? I wanted her to look at me just like before, like I was the first person she had ever seen.
The humming refrigerator rattles into stillness and in the sudden quietness I feel a small ceaseless tremor vibrating inside me, expanding, filling my lungs. I am disconnected. Cold. My hands have stopped shaking. Suddenly, I seem to be paralysed by an odourless, colourless, invisible gas. Despair.
I don’t hear the door open. I don’t hear footsteps.
‘Hello.’
I open my eyes. Darcy is standing in the kitchen, wearing a beanie, a denim jacket and patched jeans.
‘How did you get here?’
‘A friend brought me.’
I turn to the door and see Ruiz, rumpled, careworn, still wearing his rugby tie at half-mast.
‘How are you doing, Joe?’
‘Not so good.’
He shuffles closer. If he hugs me I’ll start to cry. Darcy does it for him, putting her arms around my neck and squeezing me from behind.
‘I heard it on the radio,’ she says. ‘Is it the same man- the one I met on the train?’
‘Yes.’
She takes off her rainbow-coloured gloves. Her cheeks are flushed with the change in temperature.
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