there, watching me.
Eventually, I hear the door close. He’s gone.
I fling myself over on the bed so that I’m facing the door that he’s just exited.
Who is this man? I swear I hadn’t seen him before I was abducted. What does he want? Can’t he just tell me everything, like some kind of super villain confessing his evil plans? At least tell me he’s got his cock out every night at the thought of me but he’s just biding his time; tell me we had a chance encounter in a newsagent/ restaurant/ supermarket; tell me he has my daughter strapped inside a wheelie bin somewhere ready to be landfill unless I have sex with him. Just don’t leave me here, not knowing.
I need to know what’s happening. Why is no one telling me what’s happening to my baby?
I need Cara. I need Paul. I need a hug, some tea, some air, some knowledge, some hope. I just need. Give me something. Please.
The other side of the door
I could just have let her scream. Of course I could. I’m prepared. Tough love, isn’t it called? I’ve experience of that. I’ve hardened myself for more. Had to. Grit your teeth, get on with it, think of the greater purpose. The purpose she’ll realise in due course. Once that natural obsession with her daughter has abated. Of course, she wants to know. And maybe I should tell her. But not now. Not yet. Little by little we’ll get there. Together. That’s the important bit. We’ll always be together. I’ve succeeded in that much. However difficult it might be, treating a woman like that when all you want to do is hug her and kiss her and … all the rest. The groundwork is done. We’re together. Now I just need to carry on. Day in, day out, as long as it takes.
Oh, she’s resisting. Of course she is. Wants to be in and out of that room like a jack-in-the-box. And it bothers me. Of course it bothers me. In an ideal world, she’d take one look at me, one morning, and she’d love me like I know she can. She’d thank me for the delicious fish supper. Thank me for the warm bedding. Thank me for taking care of her. But it’s not an ideal world. Don’t we know it. All of us, under this roof.
So until that happens, she’s got to stay there. Locked in that room. And sometimes I may need to use force. Judge me, you up there, if you want to. But just like you have your plans and work in mysterious ways, so do I. I didn’t like slapping her. Of course I didn’t. Yes, there was an element of me that liked the touch of her skin. So soft. English rose. Just like Cara. You want to caress skin like that, not hurt it. Needs must though. Even if she was more stunned than hurt. She’ll forgive me in the end. She has to.
Slapping her, stopping her screaming, was the right thing to do. Selfish, partly. We need to communicate. We need to have a dialogue, even if for now it’s full of hate from her. And I want to be able to hear her voice. Not just gaze at her from afar. If she’s hoarse, we can’t do that, can we? I’ve thought so much about her speaking to me nicely, silkily, calling me by name, that I don’t want to ruin my chances by making her croak.
And there’s the noise, of course. Screaming. I think we’re safe. But I’m not big on attracting attention. Not now.
Of course, if she won’t communicate as she should, however long she’s in there, I’ll need to come up with another plan. Perhaps I’ll need to force her to understand. Something with more impact. Pierce that little bubble she thinks she can hide in, away from me, for ever. But for now I have to continue with what I’ve started. A new phase of life for us all.
‘Mum? Mum!’
It’s just a whisper but it stirs me. My brain fumbles out of the half-doze it has been in.
Cara!
But where?
‘Cara?’ I call.
‘Shh! He’ll hear you,’ comes the whispered response. That’s my daughter: ever practical, ever critical.
That’s my daughter. I was right. She is here. The maternal instinct hasn’t let me down.
I flick on the light switch, hoping that the glow won’t reach the Captor, or if it does that it won’t alarm him.
‘Cara,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’
There’s a banging sound from the wall opposite the bed. She must be in the next room. I rush over; caress the plaster.
‘Are you really through there?’ I ask. ‘But how can I hear you, through a wall?’
‘Lean down,’ she says. ‘There’s a grate.’
I do as she says, and she is, of course, right. My wonderful, wonderful daughter. You’re alive! You’re here! And you have found a vent between our walls! I lie right down on the floor to see if I can see her. Think perhaps we can join little fingers – our ‘mother and daughter for ever’ hook.
Her hand is so fragile, so tender. If I squeeze it, will she squeeze back?
But no. Hearing will have to be enough.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask her.
‘You weren’t exactly quiet,’ she says.
No. I wasn’t, was I?
‘You’re all right?’ I ask her. ‘He hasn’t touched you, or hurt you, or … anything, has he?’
Silence.
‘Cara?’ I start to panic. ‘He hasn’t, he didn’t—’
‘I guess you can’t hear when I shake my head,’ comes her response.
I close my eyes with relief. ‘Thank God,’ I murmur.
There’s a pause. Then we both start talking together.
‘Do you know where we are?’ I ask, as she says ‘Do you think Dad will find us?’
Then, from her, ‘I don’t know,’ as I say, ‘I’m sure he will, sweetheart.’ And at the same time I think, I hope so. Please, let him find us.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mum,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s awful that he got you, when I understood what was happening I …’ She sounds like she’s holding back tears. Or maybe letting them flow. My poor darling Cara. ‘But I’m just glad, glad I’m not alone.’
I nod. ‘I know,’ I say. I hope she can hear that I’m hugging her voice with mine. Because I know what she means. I’m overjoyed she’s here. She’s here and she’s safe and she’s with me. I’d much rather she were at home, safer, with Paul, but at least I have this comfort. She would be my desert island luxury, as I’ve often told her. I’ll never let her go.
Such a beautiful baby. An item to treasure. Can’t I keep her with me?
‘What do you think he wants to do to us?’ she asks. ‘Just, like,
