Below Zero

by Eva Hudson

  Then the phone line clicked. A flash of static. Followed by the sound of the engine and the wheels turning on the gritted road.

  No.

  Ingrid’s chest felt like it was collapsing.

  Please, no.

  Suddenly her heart was pounding and her hands felt hot. She stopped shivering. Couldn’t feel the cold. Didn’t feel any damn thing at all apart from stupid. So incredibly stupid.

  It was the phone. The goddamned Nokia. It was still in the café. She’d been so keen to make sure it didn’t get stolen that she’d hidden it. She didn’t know which was worse: that she would never know if her instructions had been changed, or that at some point a CSI team would find it and read her messages.

  An old phone. A new SIM. Two messages sent. One received. Even a rookie on his first day in uniform would know what that meant.

  15

  There was still no conversation coming from the front of the vehicle. Either the driver was on his own or her abductors knew to talk quietly. She allowed herself a tiny smile: maybe, given that she was in Sweden, she was in the trunk of a well-made Volvo with sound insulation between the trunk and the main car.

  Then another thought occurred to her, and this one hardened something inside her: the trunk had been deliberately sound-proofed. There was a case in Megan’s file. A pedophile in Nebraska who had lined the trunk of his Datsun with loft insulation to deaden the noise his abductees made as he transported them to their deaths. The memory created a vacuum inside Ingrid’s chest.

  She pulled the blanket tight around her, but it offered no comfort. It had been fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and the trunk was colder than a refrigerator. The blanket smelt of wet dog. Odd: a spotlessly clean trunk and a dirty blanket.

  She decided she couldn’t wait any longer. They might reach their destination. Or her fingers might get so cold she wouldn’t be able to use them. It was time to act. The duct tape around her wrists was over her jacket, which meant there was a little bit of give and it was just possible to move her hands.

  In Conduct After Capture she’d read countless case histories of hostage situations. One of the clearest messages Ingrid had gotten from other people’s experiences was that constantly planning an escape is key to surviving the ordeal without going crazy. The indentations from the spare tire beneath the trunk had given her an idea.

  She felt for the chrome finger pull and tugged, lifting the carpet off the floor. She curled it upwards and grabbed it between her knees. She shuffled, positioning herself so she could reach down into the recess where the spare tire was stored. The canisters inside her sleeves pressed into her forearms as she stretched and twisted her bound arms around like a snake charmer, searching for something—anything—useful.

  Bingo.

  A hard plastic rectangle. An emergency tool kit. Or maybe first aid. She pressed her numb fingertips against the box, trying to grip it and pull it up toward her, but she just couldn’t get the right angle, or move her arms far enough apart.

  She repositioned herself onto all fours, gripping the folded carpet between her thighs, then tried again. Her hands were becoming useless in the cold and it didn’t help that she could barely see. She ignored the pain she felt when the bracelet was forced harder into her wrist. She tried again and managed to push the box free from its molded plastic home. She grabbed at it, pressing her fingers hard against it, desperate not to drop it.

  The trunk was suddenly illuminated and she dropped the case in shock. Then it was dark. Then light again. The indicators. They were turning. If they were leaving the freeway, Ingrid knew they could pull over at any moment. Her heart started beating harder, pounding painfully as she tried again, repositioning herself to get more leverage. She took a deep breath but her ribs felt constricted, as if encased in an iron mesh.

  The indicators on the other side started to flash. Not turning, overtaking. She hadn’t heard a gear change. They were still on the freeway. She exhaled: so long as they stayed on the freeway, she stayed alive.

  She reached down again, felt for the plastic case and spread her fingers wide, pressing the box on each side, hoping to lift it up. Her hands were shaking. Her fingers were numb. Her heart was beating too hard. Her breathing was too shallow. This wasn’t working.

  She shuffled backwards, moving her knees away from the hard ridges of the spare tire and let her body collapse on top of her thighs, almost getting herself into child’s pose. She pictured herself doing yoga in her apartment, the bright rectangles of sunlight stretching across the wooden floorboards. She smelt the rubber of her purple yoga mat and managed to slow her breathing by an increment. She heard the voice from the yoga app tell her to relax into the pose, to let her body release any tension.

  Her apartment. Home. She imagined herself standing at the window, glass of Sauvignon Blanc in hand, looking out at the London skyline. The Eye, the Shard, the Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, the Cheesegrater—all the buildings she could name and all the ones she couldn’t. The one in the distance that seemed to have three holes in the top. She traced the skyline in her mind from west to east and vowed that she would stand at the window again and watch the planes in their eternal formation, descending slowly over the city to Heathrow in the west. She would get home. Somehow.

  There was a bottle of wine in her refrigerator. She could see the condensation clinging to its curves. She could anticipate the satisfying noise as she twisted off the cap, the sharp release of the first sip. She was damn well going to drink that wine. Whatever happened when the trunk was opened, she was going to survive this. This was not where she was going to die. Not like this. Not yet.

  Ingrid tried to slow her breathing, to make her ribs widen, drawing in the freezing, gasoline-scented air. And feel your ribs expand, let your tummy fall softly against your knees… She had always hated the woman’s voice.

  She centered her thoughts on her sternum, just focusing on one bone, making it move, letting in the steel-cold air. The next breath was slightly deeper. She did it again. The cold hurt her lungs. And again. Her heart rate began to fall. She could do this. She was going to survive. That’s all you need to know, she told herself, that at some point this will be over and you will have survived.

  The indicators flashed on again. No gear change. Only overtaking, not turning. Ingrid repositioned herself, hoping to get a good view of the plastic case as the lights blinked before trying to fish it out again. She shuffled forward, her knees making contact with the ridges of the tire casing, and she reached down, feeling the canisters inside her sleeves as she flared out her fingers and gripped the case. If she got this right, she would be rewarded with a secret weapon—a spanner maybe, or perhaps a small canister of antiseptic spray—something that could help her escape.

  She couldn’t get her fingers beneath the case. Her only option was to grip it hard, press her numb fingertips against it and lift it up. Her hands began to tremble—stress, cold, fear—but she held on to it and somehow dropped it onto the folded carpet in front of her. It was heavy and it clanked: definitely a tool kit. A shot of exhilaration burned through her body like tequila.

  She felt for a clasp and flipped it open. Inside was a selection of ice-cold implements. It was a ratchet set, one large-handled tool with lots of interchangeable heads. Inside the lid, pressed into plastic grips, were different shapes. Thinner. Screwdrivers.

  Perfect.

  She pried one from its mooring, flipping it out onto the carpet where it promptly rolled into the void beneath her, clanking as it fell. She listened. No reaction from the driver. She pried out another one, taking more care this time, holding one end as she freed the other. It was small. Easier to conceal, but it would only inflict real damage if she rammed it into someone’s eye socket. All the combat training she’d ever done had told her to aim for the eyes, but she’d never managed to do it. She’d always flinched at the last minute.

  She wriggled onto her side and pushed the screwdriver inside the elasticated trim of her sock. A thick, three-se
ason walking sock. Her ankle was so cold she could barely feel the metal against her skin. Ingrid closed the case, tossed it back into the void beside the tire and pushed the carpet back into place, the chrome clasp tinkling as it fell against the metal housing below.

  She collapsed onto her side, her head falling heavily onto the stinking blanket, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the indicator was flashing. A faint clunk, a gear change. They were slowing. They were turning. They were leaving the freeway.

  16

  The contact noise the tires made with the road changed as the car turned again. A smaller road with deeper snow. The faint light faded almost instantly. They were traveling through trees, cutting out the weak Arctic sun. What time was it now? Two thirty? Two forty-five? There wouldn’t be much more than another hour of daylight this close to the winter solstice.

  Ingrid felt around inside the trunk for the black cotton hood. She stretched out her bound arms as best she could, feeling for it with her numb hands. It had to be there. She patted the entire perimeter of the trunk but her frozen fingers did not find anything that felt like cotton.

  The car slowed markedly, turned a sharp right and jolted as if going over a dip or ravine. Then it lurched from side to side as it rode over ruts and divots. A grinding of gears. Something snapping under the wheels. An unpaved road. She was being taken deep into the woods.

  The canister inside her right sleeve pressed hard into her forearm as she felt around for the hood. She should move the components. If they made her take the jacket off, she risked losing two of them. She shook her arms, hoping to move the canisters close enough to the cuff that she could grab them with the opposite hand. If she could get one inside the other sock, then she’d have one in her jacket, one in the backpack, and one at her ankle, diminishing the chances that she would have to sacrifice all three when they finally got round to demanding them. It didn’t matter what she tried: even if she hadn’t been wearing the tracking bracelet, the duct tape was too tight to grab hold of them. Better to find the hood instead.

  She thrashed about, desperate to have it back over her head before the trunk was opened. It must have got caught up inside the blanket. She flicked and tugged the blanket, patting it down, hoping her deadened fingers would be able to tell the difference between cotton and wool. Ingrid stopped the moment she realized why the car was traveling so slowly. The driver hadn’t put the headlights on. If he had, there’d be a red glow from the tail-lights creeping through the trunk housing. And if the lights weren’t on, it was because they didn’t want anyone to notice the car. No witnesses reduced the chance of her being found. Given what was inside her sleeves, she thought, that might not be such a bad thing.

  The car stopped and the driver put the handbrake on. He did not kill the engine before opening the door and stepping out. Another door opened. Both doors were slung shut simultaneously. So there had been two of them. Ingrid listened, hearing footsteps crunching across snow.

  The hood.

  She had to find the damn thing. She had to give the impression of being obedient. Of being dumb.

  Voices.

  Where was the hood? She grabbed frantically for it. Ingrid couldn’t make out words over the thrum of the engine, but it sounded like they were speaking in English.

  Come on! It had to be somewhere.

  Footsteps. Approaching the car. Getting closer. Louder.

  “No problems,” she thought she heard one of them say. Maybe she could hear the name ‘Mohammed’ being repeated, but she wasn’t sure. Her heart was pounding like a sprinter’s as she searched, felt, probed. She grabbed at something soft. She rubbed it between her frozen palms. Her chest felt like it might implode. It was the hood. She started to breathe more heavily as she searched for the opening.

  “You bring the boy?”

  “I don’t know.” Their accents were so thick, and their voices so muffled, that Ingrid wasn’t at all sure what she had heard.

  A loud thud. She flinched and gasped for breath. Someone had knocked on the lid. “No problems,” the voice said again.

  “I hope you are right.”

  “And I hope it will be over soon.”

  Ingrid pulled the hood over her head and moved back into the fetal position.

  “You have the key?”

  A bleep. A clunk. A blast of even colder air. The lid made a faint whirr as it opened and Ingrid turned her head toward the dim light. She couldn’t make out any detail through the cotton shroud.

  “Good afternoon.” A man’s voice. Somehow, Ingrid knew he was smiling. “My name is Mohammed and I am going to be taking care of you thank you very much.”

  The wind surged through the trees and Ingrid could feel snowflakes landing on the hood. Her ankles were particularly cold. Please, please, no. She hadn’t pulled her trouser legs down sufficiently well. Please don’t let him see the screwdriver.

  “I am not going to hurt you.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and she winced. “Do not remove the hood. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  He helped her into a kneeling position and she inched forward, placing her hands on the iced metal rim of the trunk before climbing out.

  “My bag,” she said.

  “No, no bag.” The heaviness of Mohammed’s accent suggested he had not been in Sweden long.

  Another man—the driver?—said something she couldn’t make out. Then there was a pause. A snigger.

  “OK. You keep the bag. But I check it.”

  “I need the bathroom,” Ingrid said as firmly as she was able.

  “No bathroom.” Mohammed still sounded as if he was smiling.

  “I need the bathroom. I have my period.”

  “No bathroom.” He said it in the same way he might say ‘no problem’. “You come with me thank you very much.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and stood behind her. She felt something cold and metallic jab into the small of her back.

  “You know what this is?”

  She could guess.

  “You do not run. You do not scream. Only do as I tell you. Understand?”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “OK then. Start walking.”

  17

  “How much further?”

  “Not far.”

  “How far?”

  He jabbed the gun hard into the small of her back. “Just walk.”

  The tread of Ingrid’s sneakers had become compacted with snow and her feet slid beneath her like a skater’s. She held out her bound arms like a B-movie zombie and inched precariously forward. Her bare hands burned with the cold. In her jacket pocket she could feel the bulge of her thermal gloves and desperately wanted to be allowed to put them on.

  The wind moved noisily through the trees, sending down flurries of snow, covering their footsteps and ensuring no one could follow. Ingrid’s foot slipped and she stumbled, landing on her knees.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “It would be easier,” she said, “and faster, if I could take the hood off. I can’t see where I’m walking.”

  “Not possible,” he said, helping her up.

  “But you’ve got a gun. If I look at you, you can shoot me.”

  “Walk.”

  After a few more steps, Ingrid fell again, deliberately, and landed awkwardly. She cried out, genuinely in pain.

  “Get up,” Mohammed said.

  “I need a moment.” Then she added: “I have hurt myself.” Tears sprang from her eyes beneath the hood as the pain from her knee radiated up her thigh. Suddenly overwhelmed, she felt small, vulnerable. Her bravado had gone. Her training evaporated. The events of the preceding hours ripped through her brain. This wasn’t a movie. This wasn’t a training course. She really was sitting on the ice somewhere outside Stockholm with a bag over her head and a gunman for company. Her jaw began to tremble. Her teeth chattered and a silent sob rose up from deep within, escaping from her mouth with such force that her whole body shook.

  “OK. You can take off th
e hood thank you. But you look down only. Only at your feet.” So it wasn’t that he didn’t want her to see his face; he didn’t want her to see the location. Ingrid held out her arms and he grabbed her wrists to yank her upright, his fingers brushing against the bracelet. “Only when I say, OK?”

  He turned her round, faced her away from him and placed a hand on her head.

  “You look up, you die. Understand?” His tone of voice lacked menace. He sounded rehearsed rather than sincere.

  Ingrid nodded.

  A moment later, his fingers grabbed at the hood, sliding it up over her face and off her head. Before she had opened her eyes, she felt the gun press against her waist. It was darker than she’d calculated, the snow almost blue in the deepening twilight. They were on a forester’s path, a compacted strip of flattened snow ridged with tracks and the remnants of footprints. The path was too narrow for a car: the tracks belonged to a motorcycle or a snowmobile. Or maybe a wheelbarrow.

  Where the hell is he taking me?

  “Walk.” Mohammed jabbed the gun into her, pushing her forward.

  Ingrid looked down at her feet and was surprised to see how much snow was clinging to her jeans. The tears that had seeped from her eyes froze against her cheeks. She placed her feet where the snow lay a little deeper, bending her arms so her hands were by her chin. Her knee hurt when she put weight on it, but only a little.

  “You have my bag?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  By four o’clock it would be pitch-dark and it would stay that way for sixteen hours. This was her best chance to escape. Just one kidnapper. If she could distract him, disarm him, get his gun, put a slug somewhere in his lower leg, disable him, she could run. She could get herself free.

  From the angle the gun jabbed into her side and from the direction of his voice, Ingrid knew that Mohammed was tall. He also sounded young. Probably in his twenties. With her hands bound, the only way she could even the odds was by surprising him. But she’d have to be sure. There would be no second chances.