“Two-thirty,” he replied quickly, and avoided the temptation of adding, “As any schoolboy could have told you.”
“O.K. I’m on my way over. Flying to Schiphol Airport. Arriving six p.m. Get someone to meet me. Car and driver. How far is it?”
“Damn,” said Bliss, his hand held tightly over the mouthpiece as he turned to Yolanda. “Edwards is coming. How far to Schiphol?”
She held up one finger and her lips mouthed the word, “Hour.”
“About an hour, Sir,” he said, his eyes glued to her lips, realizing the shape of the word “hour” had formed a perfect kiss.
“Right. Make the arrangements and don’t muck anything else up.”
“Sir …” he started, intending to rat on Sergeant Jones and his drinking companions, then deciding against it. “Will do, Sir.”
“And hold that ship until I arrive. I want to examine it personally.”
Bliss looked out of the huge window and saw the first of the passengers’ cars trickling down the ramp into the belly of the ship. Smoke billowed from the huge chimney as the engines fired up, and the dock below was a hive of activity as workers scrambled to load everything as quickly as possible.
“No can do, Sir,” he said quickly, with no intention of returning to disappoint the captain. “She’s just leaving.”
Yolanda was touching him again, tugging insistently at his sleeve, trying to draw his attention to a fax just in from England. Motsom’s car had been identified on the list from the ship. He grabbed the sheet, stared at it, and could scarcely control his excitement. Thinking quickly he noisily scrunched the paper into a loose ball next to the mouthpiece and mumbled, “Bad line, Sir. Better go. Meet you at six.”
Then he replaced the receiver as Yolanda was saying, “You are a very naughty boy.” They laughed together—again.
chapter five
Is this a dream? This is a dream: Is a dream this?
Trudy, chasing the words in her mind, fingered the rough sheets of the bed beneath her, Roger’s bed, and was gashed by the sharp edge of reality.
“It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream. It’s a FUCKING NIGHTMARE.”
Stop screaming—you’re screaming again. Stop screaming.
Why ?
You’re wasting breath. No one hears you.
Roger might.
You want him to hear?
“No … yes … maybe … I dunno …” she bawled.
Now look at the mess you’ve made of your face.
How … how can I look? It’s pitch black in here and I can’t move.
“I CAN’T MOVE!”
You’re screaming again.
You’d scream if you couldn’t move.
Am I dead?
Can you smell that stink?
It’s awful. What is it?
You.
Me? Yuk … I stink that bad. I must be dead.
YOU’RE NOT DEAD.
I need to pee.
Get off the bed then—get to the bucket.
“I CAN’T”
Stop screaming. You can get up if you try … Oh … Now you’re wet again.
Told you.
You might as well go back to sleep.
She woke with a mouthful of cotton wool, minutes, hours, days, later—gulping mouthfuls of air until her chest rose and fell with reasonable rhythm.
“Where am I… I can’t breathe.”
The smell from the old plastic bucket in the corner suddenly caught up to her, made her retch, and put her mind in place. Tears trickled down her cheeks as they had so often in the past week; she would have wiped them away if only her hand would co-operate.
“You can do it,” the voice told her. Whose voice she wondered—God?
Finally taking control, her mind forced her hand into motion, but the pain of movement turned a whimper to a scream. “Keep trying,” said the voice, and her right hand swam slowly into view through the mistiness of tears.
What’s the time? she wondered, in sudden panic. What’s the day, or week? She twisted her wrist for her watch but its smashed face brought back too many memories, too much anguish, too many nightmares, and she started crying again. Misery dissolved to fear. “Oh God,” she cried, “I don’t want to be here when he gets back.”
She scanned the darkened room, her eyes seeking the glow of the computer. It was still there, her only hope, but useless without his password. I must try some more, she thought, willing herself off the bed to crawl toward the luminant screen in the corner of the room.
Her hands, arms, and shoulders hurt most, but her whole body ached in one way or another. Each movement brought new pain as the sharp ridges of the rough flagstone floor sliced into her hands and knees. Reaching the computer she collapsed on the floor, breathless, and lay panting like a dog after a good run. Turning to lay face up she bit at the putrid air, forcing it into her lungs, never seeming to get enough. The exertion of the crawl, just two strides for a fit man, had drained her resources and left a snail-trail of blood and urine. I wish I’d used the bucket, she cried in disgust, as the wet denim skirt clung coldly to her backside. Even with Roger in the room, watching out of the corner of his eye, she had still managed to get to the bucket to pee—desperation overcoming modesty.
“Air,” she gasped, “I need air.” And awareness came like a lump in the breast as her dazed brain battled against accepting the obvious: She couldn’t breathe because there was nothing in the air that was breathable. Most of the oxygen had already been sucked out of it and the effort of breathing itself sapped the dregs, making her light headed.
I must get fresh air, she thought, pulling her mind together. But how? She turned to the computer, somehow expecting it to help, and dragged the keyboard onto the floor so she could type without having to get up.
“ROGER. PLEASE COME BACK AND LET ME OUT,” she typed, then erased the line and started again.
“DON’T COME BACK ROGER. PLEASE DON’T COME BACK. JUST TELL MY MUM WHERE I AM. PLEASE, PLEASE, TELL MY MUM. SHE’LL BE EVER SO WORRIED.”
She stopped, overcome by the exertion of typing and thinking, and waited a full minute, breathing slowly, consciously, listening to the grating of exhausted air rushing in and out of her lungs. Her energy regained, she started again, being careful not to overtax herself, beginning at the top of the screen, aborting her plea to Roger.
“DEAR MUM,” she typed, paused, considered, and deleted the “Dear.”
“Too formal,” she mused, and tears welled as she realised she’d never written to her mother before.
“MUM,” she continued. “I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY ROGER.”
The phrase absorbed her for several minutes as she mulled over its ramifications and, although concluding it wasn’t strictly true, could think of no better way to adequately express what had happened.
“Marg,” she had said, excitedly, a couple of weeks earlier, “Roger wants to meet me—what do you reckon?” They had bumped into each other in Quickmart on their way to school. Trudy, buying lunch—a couple packets of crisps and a can of coke; Margery—conscious of her waist—choosing twenty Benson & Hedges.
“Dunno,”