My stomach rumbles again. Love does not conquer hunger apparently.
I look at the breakfast tray. I could just eat half of everything. That way, if it really is drugged, it won’t hit me with its full strength. I might just be caused to flutter my eyelashes a bit, not invite him into my bed. And I would have the strength to give my letter to Cara the full attention it needs. Plus me starving isn’t going to help. I need the strength for a fight, if it comes.
I put down the paper and move to the tray. Cutlery this time, although plastic. Does he trust me a little bit then? To arm me with two (blunt) pencils and a plastic spoon? Or has he just risk assessed the situation – a happy well-nourished kidnappee is less likely to attack than a soul-starved hungry one?
If so, he’s made a miscalculation. Because if my window sign doesn’t get me and Cara safely out of here, then something else will.
The other side of the door
I make two identical lunches, on two identical trays. I add the ground-up powder. Perhaps I should feel guilty. Perhaps I do. But, in the bigger scheme of things, it’s nothing, is it? And it will get us where we need to be. They don’t always realise it, do they, when they most need your help? That your goal is their goal. That they should eat up and await dessert.
My mobile rings in the next room. Should I answer it? I know who it will be. Him. There used to be lots of calls, from other people, but now I always know who it will be. He’s been phoning every day since … Well, obviously. Since then. I knew he’d read about it. I read about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe it’s not healthy. But there’s something about seeing the names of people you love in the papers. And more photos. I devour the photos – add them to the ones round the wall. But he couldn’t be satisfied with that, could he? He has to phone. Demanding an audience. But why should I give him one? If Suze had wanted him, she would have asked for him, wouldn’t she? Says it’s about the girl, of course, not about Suze. And not about the money. That the money is just an extra concern. But I know what they’re like, how these negotiations work. He’ll wheedle his way in on the pretext of the girl, and suddenly it will be about Suze. I’ll lose them both. And the money, which I need for our perfect future life. I can’t let that happen.
Maybe just sit here. Don’t answer the phone. Have a drink. Large glass of wine, maybe? Hah. No. I got rid of all that, didn’t I? Tea then. But just sit here, ignoring him? I can. For now. He doesn’t know where I am, where this place is. I think. I pray. I’ve done my best to hide this sanctuary from him. But maybe he’ll find it. He found me, after all, out in the world, tracked me down. For the time being, his resources have failed him. Maybe someone’s advised him against it, tracking down the postcode. More harm than good, perhaps he’s been told. Doesn’t want to put himself in jeopardy, when it comes down to it.
But he’s bound to track us down eventually, if he’s frustrated. Which would never do.
So I answer.
‘Hello?’ comes a voice at the other end. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’ Because who else would it be?
‘I’ll come over then, shall I?’ says the man.
‘You know I’m not going to agree to that.’
‘I just want to talk,’ he says.
Yeah, right.
‘We can talk now,’ I retort.
‘Face to face.’
I don’t say anything. If we were face to face, as he wants, I might not be able to conceal fear within hostility. I’m not sure I’m managing it now.
He continues to push.
‘Where can we meet?’
‘So that I leave the house empty? I don’t think so.’ I know his game.
‘You’re not helping yourself,’ he tells me.
I don’t need any help, from myself or anyone else, so I hang up.
Just imagine he found out where I live – he’d turn up on the doorstep immediately. In darkness, I can leave, if I go out the back entrance. Like this morning. No evidence of anyone staking the place out, at least not from the back. Maybe he hasn’t told anyone what he knows. Maybe the big guns aren’t out to get me. I can reach the woods easily from the back, take a shortcut to where I need to be. Because I have to go there, to that spot. That mound of earth so carefully packed into place. Remind myself why I’m doing it all. What’s gone before. What’s still to come. And keep my resolve. Because I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to stay strong. So I move away from the phone, back to the trays. And perfect the feeding time offering.
It’s all very well lying to your mum, but lying to the headmistress takes extra skills, Alice thinks, as she exits the interrogation room aka the headmistress’s study. With your mum, you know all the levers and buttons to pull and press. All the points to cry. And you know that she loves you. The headmistress doesn’t love you. The headmistress pretends to love you, but really she is that very rude word that Daddy uses sometimes. And she can see into your soul.
So how was Alice supposed to resist? It was Mr Wilson’s fault anyway, not hers. He shouldn’t have read her English homework so suspiciously. Just because a few characters in a composition have a conversation about truth and secrets and best friends, it doesn’t mean that she was talking about her own truth, secrets and best friends. Doesn’t he know what fiction is? OK, so, in this case, it wasn’t totally fiction, but it was so out of order for him to report her to the headmistress. Mrs Wilson. That’s what she and Cara would have gigglingly called him if she’d been there, his voice was so high-pitched. But she wasn’t there, was she? That was the whole problem.
So Mrs Cavendish had called Alice into her study and talked in very airy-fairy terms about truth and how helping a friend isn’t always by doing what they ask you to do. Sometimes you have to tell people everything you know about a friend in order to be the best friend you can. Mrs Cavendish’s eyes did not stray from Alice’s for one syllable. By the end of the lecture, Alice was sure that Mrs Cavendish could hear her brain, and that there was little point in keeping the secret because Mrs Cavendish must already know it.
‘OK,’ said Alice, nodding bravely. ‘I’ll tell.’
Then in came Mr Belvoir with his questions. What had she seen? What had she heard, smelled, believed? What had Cara told her? Would she swear on that in court? Did she know where the man could be found?
All these questions, she’d understood. They reminded her of Monsieur Poirot and Mr Holmes, whose stories she’d listened to on Audible.com with her parents in the evening when homework was over. Non-police male detectives asked odd, detailed questions and achieved miraculous results, often changing the world with the results – reappearing the missing, making dead people live. But then there were questions that she didn’t understand at all, even in the Poirot/ Holmes world. Questions that left her a little uneasy. Questions about Cara’s mum. About Cara’s mum’s husband. Personal, private questions, about habits, ways of living, that left her feeling dirty. And perhaps Mrs Cavendish felt dirty too. Because, after a while, she asked Mr Belvoir if he was quite done, as she felt sure Alice must have classes to attend.
And so Alice left. Now, on the way to History, which was hopefully all about Francis Drake and the Armada, and not about best friends and cars and peculiar gentlemen, Alice thinks she might have made the wrong decision. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told. Although she didn’t quite tell, did she? Because she didn’t have the address. Of where to find the man Mr Belvoir seemed to be so keen to find. She just had the