Yes, of course, the window. My sign. It will be poxy in small notebook paper and a pencil but I will do the best I can.
What to write?
Keep it simple. Something like:
‘Please help. Mother and daughter, Susan and Cara Bright, held hostage in here. Call 999.’
We must be all over the news – Paul will have done his bit insisting the media and police will be on the case. Right? Paul won’t just think I’ve taken Cara on a trip? No. We were due to be at home, to eat together. The Captor snatched me from home and must have snatched Cara from school.
And Paul will find us. Then everything will go back to normal. I’ll resurrect the cupcake business. Cara will go back to school – once I’ve spoken to the Head about security – and we’ll all dine out on this trauma for the rest of our lives.
I sketch out the words for the sign lightly first. They cover six sheets of paper. Then I start pressing hard. Deep grey shading, to make it visible outside. But not too dark so as to destroy the pencil. It’s all I have.
I’m so absorbed in my task that it’s not until I hear the key in the lock that I know the Captor is coming.
Quick! Hide the sign! Why didn’t I take my own advice to Cara and look for a hiding place? The door is opening, where can I put the sign?
I shove it under duvet, just in time. By the time the Captor’s face appears, I am posing with the notebook, pencil in hand.
He bends down to place a tray down on the floor. Granola, yoghurt, orange juice, a cup of tea. An inch at the back of his neck is exposed. If the pencil were sharper, I could bring it down, now, spear it through the skin, force him to the floor. Or could I? He’s a big guy. I’m not so huge. Maybe I need more than a pencil.
He stands up again. Moment or non-moment of potential escape gone.
He looks at me. ‘Writing in your diary then?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘I can’t think of anything to write. Not much happens in here.’
‘Let me help with that,’ he says. And he sits down on the bed. Right on top of the part of the duvet that hides the sign.
If he pushes the duvet back, I am finished. He is too close to me. I can smell him. He smells of mould. Not in a way that makes me retch. More that fragrant mould, released in forests after the rain. Fine for forests. Not so nice on a man.
He takes the diary and pencil from me. I want to resist, want to claw them back, but we know who has the power here.
He writes in the diary. Seeing as he is so close to me, I try to lean in, see what he is writing, but he hides it from me. He is concentrating. I couldn’t, could I, stand up and make a run for the door? He sees my head move and follows my eye line. He puts one leg firmly across mine. He is wearing big, heavy boots. I stay where I am.
Then I notice that when he moved, the duvet moved with him. The edge of the sign I drew is now visible.
Shit.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull back all the duvet, find out what is underneath. Punish me.
He is still focusing the notebook. For now.
I resist the urge to look at the sign again. He is observant. He will follow my eyes. Instead, I force myself to stare at him, while he looks at the notebook. I scrutinise the hair in his ear, the little lines around the edge of his eyes. This is a villain who has smiled more than he has frowned then. Not a good sign. Potentially sociopathic.
‘There,’ he says. ‘Done.’ He hands me back the diary.
I look at what he has written.
‘Today is the day that I shared my bed. Sitting this time. But it’s a sign of closeness. A sign of more to come. I will give that man what he wants – what I want, really – in time.’
I shiver. I look up at him. He smiles.
So. That is the plan then. He does, as he says, want me. But, apparently, I have to give myself to him.
He stands up. I want to break eye contact, let him know his plans revolt me. But I daren’t, lest his eyes search out the paper sign instead. Holding his gaze, I shift along the bed, putting one hand behind me. I call feel the rough edge of the paper under my hand. I hope it is covered. I hope he doesn’t think the gesture is an invitation.
He stays in the room, staring at me. A smile – or is it a smirk – crosses over his lips. He adds to the creases round his eyes. Then he turns his back and opens the door, and goes out. And locks me in again.
There it is – under the grate! A letter from Cara!
I was so busy trying to fend off, distract, comprehend the Captor that I must have missed it coming through. At least, I hope it’s a letter. Not just a bundle of papers. I rush to pick up the pages. They shake in my hands like leaves.
And yes! Thank goodness. Here is Cara’s wonderful handwriting. That beautiful, self-conscious, teenage script, with the dots of ‘i’s done in circles, the ‘z’s struck through, and all letters bulbous and round. That relief as real as when I used to look at you in your little bed, holding my own breath until your chest rose again. I clutch the paper to myself before I begin to read, inhaling it. Cara. Then I pull it away and study it.
Dear Mum,
Amazing. SO well done getting the paper and pencil. Totally get what you say about a hiding place. The room has a … actually, no, better not write where the hiding place is in case your place isn’t as good as mine
So. What’s the plan? How are we getting out of here? We will get out of here, won’t we? Dad must be coming, right? I reckon give him another few hours and he’ll be here. Definitely.
How did you end up in here? I remember being by the school gates, then in a car, but not much else. Then … here.
I just wish we could get a message out. Let people know where we are. That we’re alive. And so far, safe.
That first night, I think it was night, that was the worst. I just sat up in this horrible bed in the dark holding the duvet and shaking. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I thought I’d never see you or Dad again. I would have given anything to know you were here. And now you are.
I love you Mum. I know you’ll get us out of this.
You will, right?
Cara xxx.
I read the letter again and again. And again. I trace the loops with my eyes and then with my fingers. Cara. At once so strong and so vulnerable. So independent and yet still my little girl. I’d give anything to hug her. Kiss that beautiful face. To take her home, reunite her with the pink biro that I know this letter would be written in, had she the choice. She’d maybe cover it with some pink hearts, for extra measure, like the hearts she draws on the magazine articles and clippings that adorn her bedroom walls. Perfume ads, fashion pictures, cute animals – she’s a real girl’s girl. Then she recreates that physical space online, Pinterest and everything. I know. She showed me a picture of one of my cupcake ads she’d ‘pinned’ on her virtual board. I felt so proud that she should be proud of me.
Much as I would love to write back immediately with outpourings of love, I can’t write back until there is a plan. You can tell from the letter that she needs me to think of one, to keep her happy. What energetic and traumatised fifteen-year-old wants simply to hang round waiting for Dad to do something? I’m surprised I can’t hear her ricocheting off the walls with pent-up frustration.
No.