The Mister

by James, E L

  “Follow me.” He walks briskly toward the entrance. Alessia quietly sets her bag on the ground, turns, and runs.

  * * *

  I stare at the ceiling, my mind churning through all the plans I’ve put in place since Alessia was taken. Tomorrow I’ll fly to Albania, and Tom Alexander will accompany me. Annoyingly, it’s too-short notice for a private jet, so we’re flying commercial. Thanks to Magda, we have the address of Alessia’s parents. It’s also thanks to Magda that Alessia’s fiancé found her. I don’t dwell on this tidbit of information, because it makes me incandescent with fury.

  Calm down, mate.

  We’ll pick up a car, drive to Tirana, and overnight there at the Plaza hotel. Tom has arranged for us to meet up with a translator who will come with us to Kukës the following day.

  And we’ll stay there for however long it takes. We’ll wait for Alessia and her kidnapper.

  Not for the first time this evening, I wish I’d bought her that phone. It’s so frustrating not being able to contact her.

  I hope she’s okay.

  I close my eyes, imagining horrible scenarios.

  My sweet girl.

  My sweet, sweet Alessia.

  I’m coming to get you. I’ve got you.

  I love you.

  * * *

  Alessia flees blindly into the dark, fueled by her adrenaline rush. She’s running over the asphalt, then onto rough grass. Behind her she hears a shout. It’s him. She hears his footsteps pounding on the frozen ground. Getting closer.

  Closer still.

  Then silence.

  He’s on the grass.

  No.

  She pushes herself harder, hoping that her feet will carry her away from him. But he grabs her, and she’s falling. Falling. Tackled to the ground so forcefully that she scrapes her face on the frosted grass. Anatoli lies on top of her back, panting heavily. “You stupid bitch. Where the hell do you think you’re going to go at this time?” he hisses in her ear. He kneels up and drags her over until she’s lying on her back, then sits astride her. He slaps her hard across her face, snapping her head to the side. He leans down over her, puts his hand on her throat, and squeezes.

  He’s going to kill her.

  She doesn’t struggle.

  She stares at him. Her eyes on his. In their frigid blue, she sees the darkness of his heart. His hate. His anger. His inadequacy. His hand tightens, and he’s choking the life from her. Her head begins to swim. She reaches up and clutches his arm.

  This is how I am going to die….

  She sees her end. Here. Somewhere in France at the hands of this violent man. She wants it. She welcomes it. She doesn’t want to live a life in fear, like her mother. “Kill me,” she mouths.

  Anatoli growls something incomprehensible—and lets go.

  Alessia takes a huge breath and puts her hands up to her throat, coughing and spluttering, her body overruling her, fighting for life, sucking in precious air, and reviving her.

  She gasps. “This is why I don’t want to marry you.” Her voice is husky and small, forcing sound through her bruised larynx.

  Anatoli grabs her jaw and looms over her, his face close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her cheek . “ ‘A woman is a sack, made to endure,’ ” he snarls, with a cruel glint in his eye.

  Alessia gazes at him as hot tears scald the sides of her face and pool in her ears. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying. He is quoting from the ancient Kanun of Lek Dukagjini, the primitive feudal code that governed the mountain tribes in the north and east of her country for centuries. Its legacy lingers. Anatoli sits back.

  “I would be better off dead than with you.” Her voice is emotionless.

  He frowns, nonplussed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He slowly rises, standing over her. “Get up.”

  Alessia coughs once more and staggers painfully to her feet. He clasps her elbow and marches her back to where her abandoned bag sits in the parking lot. He picks it up and grabs his own suitcase several steps farther on.

  He makes short work of checking in. Alessia hangs back while he hands over his passport and credit card. Anatoli speaks fluent French. She’s too weary and too sore to be surprised.

  Their spartan suite has two main rooms. The living room has dark gray furniture and a small kitchenette to the side. The wall behind the sofa is painted in cheerful mismatched stripes. Through the open door beyond, Alessia spies two double beds. She breathes a sigh of relief. Two beds. Not one. Two.

  Anatoli dumps her duffel on the floor, shoves off his coat, and throws it on the sofa. Alessia watches him, listening to the thud of her pulse thrumming in her ears. In the silence of the room, it’s deafening.

  What now? What will he do?

  “Your face is a mess. Go and clean yourself up.” Anatoli points to the bathroom.

  “And whose fault is that?” Alessia snaps.

  He glowers at her, and for the first time she notices his red-rimmed eyes and his pale complexion. He looks exhausted. “Just do it.” He even sounds exhausted. She heads into the bedroom, then the bathroom, slamming the door with such force that the loud bang makes her jump.

  The bathroom is small and dingy, but in the insipid glow of the light above the mirror Alessia sees her reflection and gasps. One side of her face is red from his slap, and on the other there’s a graze on her cheekbone from where she hit the ground. Around her throat there are vivid red marks in the shape of his fingers. Tomorrow they will be bruises. But what shocks her most is the lifeless eyes staring back at her from beneath swollen lids.

  She is dead already.

  With swift, automatic movements, she washes her face, wincing as the soapy water touches the scrape. She pats herself dry with a towel.

  When she reenters the living room, Anatoli has hung up his jacket and is searching through the minibar.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  She shakes her head.

  He pours himself a drink—scotch, she thinks—and downs the entire glass in one gulp, closing his eyes to savor the taste. When he opens them again, he seems calmer. “Take off your coat.”

  Alessia doesn’t move.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alessia, I do not want to fight with you. I am tired. It’s warm in here. Tomorrow we will go back out into the cold. Please take your coat off.”

  Reluctantly she removes her coat as Anatoli stares at her, making her feel self-conscious. “I like you in jeans,” he says, but Alessia can’t look at him. She feels like a prize sheep on the auction block as he appraises her. She hears the rattle of bottles, but this time Anatoli produces a Perrier out of the fridge. “Here, you must be thirsty.” He pours it into a glass and offers it to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes it and drinks.

  “It’s almost midnight. We should sleep.”

  Her eyes meet his, and he smirks. “Ah, carissima, I should make you mine after the stunt you pulled outside.” He reaches for her chin, and she flinches as his fingers graze her skin.

  Don’t touch me.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking only to himself. “But I don’t have the energy to fight you. And I think it would be a fight. Yes?”

  She closes her eyes, battling a wave of revulsion that unsettles her stomach. Anatoli chuckles, and his lips caress her forehead in a soft kiss. “You will grow to love me,” he whispers. He picks up their bags and takes them into the bedroom.

  Never.

  The man is delusional.

  Her heart belongs to another. It will always belong to Maxim.

  “Go and change into your nightclothes,” he says.

  She shakes her head. “I will sleep like this.” She doesn’t trust him.

  Anatoli cocks his head, his expression severe. “No. Take your clothes off. You won’t run i
f you’re naked.”

  “No.” She crosses her arms.

  “No you won’t run, or no you won’t take your clothes off?”

  “Both.”

  He exhales, frustrated and tired. “I don’t believe you. But I also don’t understand why you are running.”

  “Because you are an angry, violent man, Anatoli. Why would I want to spend my life with you?” Her voice holds no emotion.

  He shrugs. “I don’t have the energy for this conversation. Get into bed.” Seizing the moment, in case he changes his mind, she scuttles into the bedroom. There she slips off her boots and huddles on top of the bed farther away, turning her back on him.

  She listens as he moves around the room, undressing and folding his clothes. Her anxiety mounts with each movement and with each sound. After an eternity the soft slap of his footsteps pad on the floor as he approaches her bed. He stands beside her, his breathing shallow, and she feels his eyes on her. Everywhere. She squeezes hers shut, pretending to sleep.

  He tuts, and she hears the rustle of sheets and blankets, and to her surprise he drapes a blanket over her. He switches off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and the bed dips as he lies down.

  No! He should be in the other bed.

  She stiffens, but he’s beneath the covers while she’s on top. He puts his arm around her and shuffles closer. “I will know if you leave the bed,” he says, and he kisses her hair.

  She recoils and clutches her little gold cross.

  Soon his even breathing tells her that he’s asleep.

  Alessia stares into the darkness she fears and wishes it would swallow her up. Her tears refuse to fall. She’s all cried out.

  What is Maxim doing?

  Is he missing me?

  Is he with Caroline?

  She sees Caroline in Maxim’s arms as he holds her close, and Alessia wants to scream.

  * * *

  Alessia is too warm, and someone is murmuring in the background. She cracks one eye open momentarily, bewildered as to where she might be.

  No. No. No.

  A wash of fear and despair fills her with anguish when she remembers.

  Anatoli.

  He’s on the phone in the other room. Alessia sits up and listens.

  “She’s okay….No. Far from it…She’s reluctant to return home. I don’t understand it.” He’s talking to someone in Albanian, and he sounds confused and upset. “I don’t know….Maybe…There was a man. Her employer. The one who was mentioned in the e-mail.”

  He’s talking about Maxim!

  “She says she is just his cleaner, but I don’t know, Jak.”

  Jak! He’s talking to my father!

  “I love her so much. She’s so beautiful.”

  What? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word “love”!

  “She hasn’t told me yet. But I want to know, too. Why would she leave?” His voice cracks. He’s emotional.

  I left because of you!

  She left to get as far away from him as she could.

  “Yes. I will bring her back to you. I will make sure she’s unharmed.”

  Alessia places her hands on her still-tender throat. What the hell? Unharmed?

  He’s a liar.

  “She’s safe with me.”

  Ha! Alessia almost wants to laugh at the supreme irony of that statement.

  “Tomorrow night…Yes…Good-bye.” She hears him move about the room, and suddenly he appears at the door wearing only his pants and an undershirt.

  “You’re awake?” he says.

  “Sadly, it would appear so.”

  He gives her an odd look and chooses to ignore her comment. “There is some breakfast for you out here.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Alessia feels reckless and bold. She doesn’t care anymore. Now that Maxim is out of harm’s way, she can behave as she wishes.

  Anatoli rubs his chin and regards her thoughtfully. “Suit yourself,” he says. “We leave in twenty minutes. We have a long way to go.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Carissima, you have no choice. Don’t make this painful for both of us. Don’t you want to see your father and mother?”

  Mama.

  His eyebrows rise a fraction. He’s noticed the chink in her armor and, sensing victory, swoops in for the kill. “She misses you.”

  She rises out of bed and sullenly grabs her bag and, skirting him as widely as she can, heads into the bathroom to wash and change.

  Under the shower an idea begins to form in her head.

  She has her money. Maybe she should return to Albania. She can get a new passport—and a visa—and return to England.

  Maybe I should stay alive.

  And as she briskly towel-dries her hair, she feels a new sense of purpose.

  She will get back to Maxim. And see for herself. See if everything they shared was a lie.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Alessia dozes in the front seat. They are on an autobahn traveling way too fast. They’ve been driving for hours, through France, through Belgium, and she thinks they’re now somewhere in Germany. It’s a cold, wet, winter day, and the landscape is flat and bleak, reflecting Alessia’s mood. No. She feels more than bleak—she’s desolate.

  Anatoli seems grimly determined to get to Albania as fast as possible. At the moment he’s listening to a German talk show on the radio, which Alessia doesn’t understand. The monotony of the voices, the constant rumble of road noise, and the dreary countryside are all dulling her senses. Sleep is what she wants. When she’s asleep, her anguish is a low hum, like static on the radio. It’s not the searing pain that tears at her heart when she’s conscious.

  She turns her mind to Maxim.

  And the pain amplifies.

  Stop. It’s too much.

  She looks through tired eyes at her “betrothed,” studying him. His face is hardened in concentration as the Mercedes eats up the miles. His complexion is fair, betraying his northern Italian roots—his nose straight, his lips full, and his blond hair, uncommon in her town, is long and unkempt. Alessia can look at him dispassionately and judge him to be a handsome man. But those lips have a cruel twist to them, and those eyes are piercing and cold when he’s glaring at her.

  She remembers when she first met him. How charming he’d been. Her father had told her that Anatoli was an international businessman. During that first meeting, he’d seemed so dashing and knowledgeable. He was well traveled, and she’d listened rapt to his stories of Croatia, Italy, and Greece—these faraway places. She’d been shy, but pleased that her father had selected such an erudite man for her.

  Little had she known.

  After she had met him a few times, she started to see flashes of the man he really was. His irrational anger at the local children who’d surrounded his car out of curious wonder when he came to visit, his temper when arguing with her father about politics, and his sly admiration when her father scolded her mother for spilling some raki. The signs were there, and he’d rebuked Alessia a few times, too, but his true nature had been constrained by social etiquette.

  It was at a local dignitary’s wedding, where Alessia was playing the piano, that Anatoli finally revealed his dark side. Two young men, whom she had known at school, lingered when she finished playing. They flirted with her until Anatoli managed to usher her into a side room, away from them and the festivities. Alessia, secretly thrilled, had thought he wanted to steal a kiss, since it was the first time they’d been alone together. But no—Anatoli was furious. He slapped her hard across her face, twice. It was a shock, even though living with her father had prepared her for physical anger.

  The second time it happened, she was at the school. A young man came to ask her a couple of questions after her recital. Anatoli chased him away and drag
ged her into the cloakroom. There he hit her a couple of times and grabbed her hands and pulled back her fingers and threatened to break them if he ever caught her flirting again. She’d begged him to stop, and mercifully he had, but he’d pushed her to the floor and left her sobbing in that room, alone.

  That first time, she kept his attack a secret. She excused it. It was a one-off. She had misbehaved. She had encouraged the young men by smiling at them.

  The second time Alessia was devastated.

  She’d thought that maybe she could break the cycle of violence that beset her mother, but it was her mother who’d found her while she lay curled up, sobbing and trembling, on the floor.

  I don’t want you to go through your life with a violent man.

  They’d wept together.

  And her mother had taken action.

  But it was all for naught.

  Now here she is—with him.

  Anatoli gives her a sideways look. “What is it?”

  Alessia averts her eyes, ignoring him, and stares out the window.

  “We should stop. I’m hungry, and you’ve not eaten,” he says.

  She continues to ignore him, though hunger claws at her stomach, reminding her of her six-day walk to Brentford.

  “Alessia!” he barks, making her jump.

  She turns to him. “What?”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  She shrugs. “You’ve kidnapped me. I don’t want to be with you, and you expect conversation?”

  “I didn’t know you could be this disagreeable,” Anatoli mutters.

  “I’m just getting started.”

  Anatoli’s mouth twitches—and to her surprise he seems amused. “I can say this about you, carissima, you are not boring.” He flicks the turn signal, and they pull off the autobahn into a service area. “There’s a café here. Let’s get something to eat.”