He’d also started calling her Mags. That was what her dad called her, when he wasn’t calling her Fruitcake. It wasn’t for Kevin.
Maybe for someone else, later, but not for Kevin.
Mags? he said. What’s wrong?
She pushed him away and stood up. Nothing. I’m getting my period. I’m going to get some water.
That had been his reaction to a vague question about taking a break. She dreaded to think what it would be when she told him she wanted to break up. Anne would have some advice.
The realization that a car had pulled up beside her broke her reverie. She started, and dropped her cigarette. She crushed it under her foot, in case it was someone who knew her parents, although if it was, it was probably too late. They’d have seen it in her hand as they stopped next to her.
The car was dark blue and nondescript. A Ford or something. Maybe a Volkswagen. Nothing too fancy, either way. She didn’t recognize it, thankfully. She glanced inside. There was a man behind the wheel, a road atlas in his hands. He was reaching for some glasses and peering at the page. He turned to look at her and smiled. He was about fifty and reminded her of a geography teacher.
No one she knew. She took her foot off the cigarette. No need to worry about that now.
The man looked at the panel by the gearstick and selected a button, his gestures very deliberate, as though new to the technology and needing to think about what he was doing. The passenger-side window rolled down.
‘Sorry,’ he said. He had a quiet, soft voice and a worried expression. She felt a little sorry for him. ‘I’m a bit lost, I’m afraid. Do you know where Ackers Lane is? Is it near here?’
It was on the other side of the park, but to get there by car you had to go through the village.
‘You’ll have to turn around,’ Maggie said. ‘When you get to the main road, turn right, and then right again at the traffic lights. I think it’s second – or maybe third – left after that. Ackers Lane is about half a mile down there.’
‘What’s the name of the road I turn into?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure,’ Maggie replied.
‘And you said it’s second left?’
‘Maybe third.’
‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to bother you. It’s a friend of my mother’s. She’s very frail and she had a fall. I need to get to her as soon as I can.’
‘That’s fine,’ Maggie said. ‘No problem. And good luck.’
The man shook his head. ‘Dash it,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t quite remember what you said. Was it left on the main road?’
‘Right,’ Maggie said. ‘Then right again at the lights.’
‘I thought it was second left? Or third?’
‘That’s after you go right at the lights.’ It was obvious from the man’s blank expression that he wasn’t following her. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s easy. Let’s start again.’
He held up the road atlas. ‘Would you mind showing me on the map?’
‘Of course,’ Maggie said. ‘Pass it over.’
The man unbuckled and twisted in his chair so he could pass the atlas over the passenger seat. She noticed that he held it in his right hand, which was weird, since his left hand was closer to her.
His left hand which, with a sudden, unexpected speed, snaked out and grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards the window.
Then he dropped the atlas, and she saw the syringe in his hand, and felt the prick of the needle in her arm. She just had time to read the front page of the atlas and think it was odd that he had a map of Cornwall when he was in Stockton Heath, and then everything went dark.
Her first thought was that she had a hangover. She recognized the sensation – throbbing temples, dry mouth, disorientation – from the time that she and Chrissie had drunk a bottle of cheap white cider in the park, and then, somehow, made their way to Chrissie’s house and passed out in her bedroom. Maggie had woken when it was still dark out and thought What happened? before the memories of the cider and the park and the two boys that had bought it for them came slowly back.
This was different, though. This time the memories that surfaced were not of cider and boys and the park.
They were of a car, and a man asking for directions and a syringe.
Holy shit.
Her eyes flew open.
She was looking at a low ceiling, covered in some kind of dark carpet tile.
A ceiling she did not recognize.
The dryness in her mouth intensified and her stomach tightened. Her pulse sped up and pounded in her neck. She sat up too quickly and felt suddenly dizzy; for a moment she thought she was going to pass out, but then her head cleared and she saw where she was.
She was on a narrow, thin mattress in a room lit by a dim lamp on a table by the bed. The room was small; the ends of the mattress were against the walls. There was an area about twice the size of the mattress covered in a brown carpet. In one corner were two blue, plastic buckets, a pink bowl with a jug inside it, and a tall wooden, barrel.
What the fuck were they there for? Maggie stared at them, aware that, in the back of her mind, she knew exactly what they were. She just didn’t want to face it.
They were the toilet, sink and bath.
She looked away. In the other corner was a door. Beside it was a box that looked like it contained a towel and possibly some clothes.
And that was it. Other than that, the room was empty.
It was also windowless, which explained the dank, musty smell.
Maggie folded her arms protectively. She was still clothed, still wearing the grey jeans and Gap hoodie she’d left the house in.
But there was something missing. She glanced at her feet. Her blue Doc Martens had been removed.
Which meant someone – the man – had touched her while she was unconscious.
Her stomach heaved and she tasted bile in her mouth. She fought the urge to be sick, but she retched again and realized she was not going to be able to stop it. She staggered to the pink bowl and leaned over it and threw up, over and over, until her stomach was empty.
Then she sat back on the mattress. The room was silent and empty, unchanged apart from the sour smell of vomit that cut through the stale air.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Hello?’
The
