man says. He stands up. Then, perhaps realising he towers over the girls, he sits down again.
‘Sometimes, when the police are looking at these things, their approach can be … limited. Now, I’m not doing them down, it’s a bit delicate, but … well, I explained to your headmistress that I’ve got a private instruction to look at what’s happened. Cara’s family, you know. Got to ask my own questions. Make discreet enquiries, with close friends. I hope that’s OK with you?’
Five heads bob in the room. The ginger head doesn’t bob.
‘Alice?’ prompts the headmistress.
After a moment, Alice, the ginger girl, nods her head.
But she excuses herself almost immediately. He must ask his questions later, she says. She has English homework to do, she says. But, as she runs from the room, ignoring the headmistress’s calls that the homework can wait, it’s not thoughts of poetry composition that are spurring her on. It’s the thought – or maybe the question – about secrets. Namely this: if your friend – your best friend, who’s been your best friend since day one of reception – tells you something and makes you swear in confidence never ever to tell anyone, do you tell a man who is investigating something bad that’s happened to that friend? When that man, after all, isn’t even the police? And if it isn’t even directly relevant? Or is it? Cara told her a secret and then—Oh Cara.
So Alice doesn’t know what she should do. Cara would know what to do. She would just decide and have done with it. Impulsive and bold, that’s Cara. Perhaps that’s the problem. But Cara isn’t here. Another problem. So, for once, Alice has to make up her own mind. The school hasn’t prepared her for this sort of dilemma. Why don’t they teach anything useful once in a while? Everyone knows it’s friendships that count. Not books and sums and facts.
But she’s stuck with those. And she’ll just have to use them. And so she runs to the library, where she hides behind her textbooks. And until she has decided, she will avoid this Mr Belvoir. Even though she knows what she knows.
Biting my nails. Putting my head in my hands. Walking about. Sitting down.
I can’t do this.
I jump to my feet.
I shout. ‘Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!’
Why am I here? Why aren’t you at least in the room with me? He can’t be scared of a woman and a girl uniting, can he? Not with all that muscle.
Do I just fuck him and hope for the best? That he’ll let me out without killing me, and we can all be a happy family again?
Or am I meant to just stay in here and finish that piece of fish? Is he fattening me up? Does he have a fat fetish? Did he think that the proprietor of a cupcake store and studio would be all doughy? That she wouldn’t be a salad-eating Pilates junky who would have to close the store if she put on a pound? Because the yummy mummies of leafy North London don’t want to associate cupcakes with saturated fats and weight gain, do they? That’s not the lifestyle. No. Perhaps they’re bulimic. I don’t care. That’s not my lookout. It’s important to watch what you eat. Of course. But not for their reasons. So, when I see them running round Alexandra Park, I nod and smile and remind them of the ‘how to do deluxe frosting’ session but I don’t follow them when they go to the bathroom.
Which is a good point. Bathroom.
I bang the door of my room from the inside. I have a question. Or at least, a ruse to bring that bastard in here.
I keep banging until I hear footsteps along the corridor.
‘Yes?’ says the Captor from outside.
‘What if I need to pee?’ I ask.
There’s a silence.
‘Do you?’ he says.
I don’t, but I want to know what happens if I do. If it gives me a way out. Some hope of escape. Or at least seeing if Cara is out there.
‘Really badly,’ I say.
There’s a pause, then a key in the lock. I expect to be handed a bucket when the door opens.
But no. He is empty-handed.
‘Turn round,’ he says.
I do as he asks.
Once I’ve turned, he takes hold of both of my arms from behind, clamps them together with one of his paw-like hands. I feel like my wrists will snap if I struggle.
He twists me round and pulls me out of the room.
We’re in a short corridor. Look about, quickly. Nothing I recognise. It’s as blank and beige as the room. Like it’s been deliberately stripped. Or like he has no life at all, apart from ruining other people’s. We pass one closed door next to mine. My stomach jumps closer to my heart. Cara? Is Cara in there?
Baby in one room, mummy in the other. Let me see her, I need to see her!
‘Hello? Cara?’
He pulls me faster along the corridor. We stop in front of an open door. I see a toilet and bath and a shower enclosure in the corner. White tiling. Clean. Probably forensically bleached before and after each visit.
He pushes me into the room.
And follows me.
What have I done?
‘There we go, then,’ he says, nodding at the toilet. He releases me from the arm hold and nudges me towards the toilet. He stands at the door, arms folded, facing into the room. Like he has no intention of leaving.
‘Are you going to give me some privacy?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. Apologetically?
‘The door doesn’t have a lock,’ he says.
‘You’re going to stand here watching me?’
He doesn’t respond.
‘You could at least turn your back,’ I tell him. Then I could at least try to jump you, I think, even if it is with my trousers round my ankles.
He still doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at me.
So. I’ll have to carry on. But I’m not going to let him degrade me. I’m not going to let him see how vulnerable I feel as I pull down my pyjama shorts. I’m not going to let him know how my flesh creeps, how my insides clench and my legs tremble. I keep eye contact as I lower myself to the seat. I expect his gaze to drift downwards, to drink me in while I urinate. But he keeps his gaze level with my eyes. I make a show of squatting up fully to wipe myself. Still his gaze stays at my eyes. At first. And then he allows himself a quick flick down, towards my exposed parts. I pull up my shorts in a hurry.
I move to the sink to wash my hands. I struggle with the taps; my hands are shaking. The Captor helps me out.
‘Careful,’
