2. Caterina
CATERINA
Everything in me turns to ice.
Should I jerk away? He’ll shoot me.
Should I scream?
Shit-shit-shit, I do not know what to do in this situation. Panic claws at my throat as overalls man drags me into the lounge and shoves me onto the couch.
“Don’t fucking try anything,” he snaps.
“Where’s your mother’s money?” the man in the suit asks. He has a gun as well, and the dark barrel is pointed at my chest. His eyes are brown, and his chin is pointy and recessed.
I can’t die and I can’t think. I’m a cube of ice.
“Where is it?”
All I can do is shake my head, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I jump as a glass crashes to the floor, and from the corner of my eye, I see the plumber man trashing my apartment.
“Your mother stole a lot of money from my boss,” the man in the suit says, his tone as level as his arm pointing that gun at me. “And just because twenty-two years have gone by doesn’t mean my boss doesn’t want what he’s owed.”
“You’ve got the wrong person.” But the co-incidence of twenty-two years being my age is sending me into a deeper freeze. My back is on the couch, and there’s nowhere for me to go.
I’m going to die. I haven’t even had a kiss. I haven’t lost my V-card.
“Please, this is a mistake?—”
“Caterina Hart.”
I blanch. Whatever has happened, they know who I am. They are after me.
“We’ll get that money back, one way or another. I suggest you talk. Now.”
“I don’t know anything,” I protest miserably.
Some rapid-fire words are exchanged between the men in a language I don’t speak. Italian, I think? Or could be Portuguese. I’m not sure. I learned French at school because when I said I was considering Italian as an option, my parents freaked out about needing to focus on subjects that would enhance my career.
I’ve never told either of them that I’d rather have babies and stay at home. I’ve worked hard for this degree now, and since the kids-thing would require a man, and I have the social skills of a small cabbage, I’ll make do with a career.
The suit man pushes the barrel of his gun closer to me, and snaps, “Tell us where the money is, or this will go badly.”
Ope. Put a star next to that. I’ll make do with a career, if I live.
“Please,” I say. Three years I’ve wasted, not talking to my neighbour. And now I’ll probably never speak to him. “I haven’t got any money.”
I’ve frittered away my whole life. I just didn’t realise it was going to be so short.
They say more, demanding to know where my parents are. Asking what the cash was spent on. What they did with it, where it is.
I say that I don’t know. I repeat it because it’s the truth.
I’m not fully in my body. I’m a bunny in headlights as the men get more and more angry. And all I can think is that I should have used one of those stupid excuses to get my neighbour alone. I should have just propositioned him, because now he’ll never even know my name.
Presumably, my space-cadet thing makes the men believe I’m no threat. The taller one in the suit keeps his weapon aimed at me, but they don’t tie me up or anything.
“Una stupida,” the fake plumber says, and I don’t need any language skills to translate that.
But in an instant, I can see that my fear of certain death has given me an advantage. The suit man’s gun isn’t directed right at me anymore, since he’s looking over his shoulder at his companion.
They start discussing something in Italian. This is my chance. If I can just reach my phone, I can try to call for help. But of course, my summer dress has no pockets, and my phone is at my desk, out of reach.
Death because of lack of pockets is possibly the most feminist point ever made.
Crap.
Could I sneak over while they’re distracted? I move slowly, my heart vibrating like a broken washing machine on a spin cycle. Keeping my gaze trained on the side of the man’s head, I shift. They could shoot me, but for now… Another few inches. My muscles scream at the tension I’m putting them under as I almost hover on top of the sofa cushions and stretch out my arm. My desk is two feet away.
“Okay, I think… What?!”
At the words I turn, and the smack to my face comes out of nowhere.
I spin with the force of it, and unbalance, falling to the tiled floor, hard.
Pain cracks through my head and cheek, and for a moment it’s so sharp it steals the air. The shock takes my capacity to move, to think, to anything, threatening darkness.
“Did you knock her out, you fuckwit?” one man snarls, and yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. I’m going to pretend to be knocked out.
My hair shifts, and for a second I think someone is touching me. Then I realise it’s blood.
Blood is seeping out of a wound on my scalp.
Rapid talk, and I don’t know if it’s because of the ringing in my ears that I can’t hear, or just it’s not English. Then there’s the sound of cruel laughter, and steps. I fight the instinct to flee, because they’re too close.
“We’ll dispose of her afterwards. Work first,” taller, black suit man says.
“Aw, you’re…”
“You can have your fun soon.”
I don’t have to feign lying still then. The horror and shock numb me.
You dispose of a half-eaten sandwich you didn’t want but felt bad about just eating crisps for lunch. You dispose of a receipt for a smutty book that you really couldn’t afford but bought, anyway.
“But—”
“You can have your fun, don’t worry,” the black suit man cuts the boilersuit man off. “But we need to search, since she’s not awake to tell us anything.”
“You look. I’ll stay here in case she wakes up.”
You don’t dispose of a person with no idea what you’re talking about and who the worst thing they’ve done is not recycle a glass bottle occasionally.
I don’t want to be disposed of.
And whatever the man in the boilersuit thinks is fun, I am definitely not up for.
Listening motionless as they tear my little apartment up looking for something I don’t think exists, a plan forms in my head. Outlines and fuzz at first, but then clearer.
I have to get away. If I can…
“Come and look at this,” the boilersuit man says.
The other man hesitates, but I remain absolutely still apart from my deep, slow breathing. Go, I will him. Look how unconscious I am. I’m not a threat. I’m just a silly girl.
“What is it?” My guard’s voice has moved.
“Proof.”
“That’s the mother, isn’t it?” They sound like they’re in the kitchen where I have a pile of post and a pinboard with recipes and some pictures of us all having dinner on my eighteenth birthday.
I have one chance.
I slowly lift my head. My hair sticks to the floor where the blood has congealed. But the lounge is empty. They’re both in the kitchen, it seems, riffling through my possessions and chatting in Italian.
My arms are wobbly as I push myself into a seated position, then onto my feet. I move swiftly and quietly, my heart thudding loud into my ransacked bedroom.
I open the window silently, then wipe my bloody hair over the edge, as though I climbed out. Then I look around and toss out a hardback book I’ve been meaning to read. It lands with a thud.
“What was that?” comes a voice from the kitchen.
Breath held, I slip across the room, silently open the wardrobe door and step into the confusion of dresses. I pull the door almost closed—as it was when I found it—and slowly, so slowly push backwards, further into the wardrobe.
Rapid footsteps echo.
“Check on the girl?—”
“Shit!”
I can’t disappear into a different realm, but I can hide in the ridiculous space behind the pipes that run up the building. They create a tall, slim gap I’ve cursed so many times for being useless for anything except hiding a body. And right now, I could kiss the builder who installed these fitted wardrobes for his irritating laziness of putting those pipes there.
Because as I wedge myself into the cubby hole, there’s a torrent of unknown words that are obviously rude, and my bedroom door bangs back.
“Where is she?”
I breathe shallow and slow, my heart vibrating.
“Get her.”
I stare at the wall in the darkness and promise myself if they find me, this time I’ll fight. No freezing up. I’ll scratch and play dirty.
“She went out the window.”
My stillness is probably some ideal meditative state. I don’t think I could move without breaking.
More swearing. Italian. They’re definitely Italian.
“That’s a small window.”
“She’s tiny. Little girl climbed out. Look at the blood.”
“I’ll go after her. You finish the search here. If you find her, kill her. If she’s on the run, she’ll contact her parents soon, and we’ll get her that way.”
There’s the pounding of heavy feet, but my ordeal is far from over. As noise from the bedroom and shadows spilling through the partially-open wardrobe door, show the man left behind is motivated. Guess he wasn’t as convinced as his colleague.
I’m alone, and my only hope is being still and silent.
As he roughly drags things around, I try for a relaxed state of mind that will keep myself calm. A beach, right? Or mountains. A nice spa. But I don’t think of those things. I think of my neighbour’s approving but haughty gaze raking down me as I walk out of the building. I think of how, when I turn back as I walk away, he’s always watching me, as though he’s as addicted to seeing me as I am him.
There’s the scrape of wood and a crash as the man overturns my bed, then curses when I’m not there.
Shit. No amount of silver-grey eyes or beaches contain the panic now. I press my lips together to keep in my hysterics. This is all so unreal. I’m just a dull, shy girl with brown hair who eats too few vegetables and has a mild Taylor Swift addiction, but now I’m a mafia target.
I clench my teeth as he searches the wardrobe. There’s a clink as he shoves the hangers from one side to the other, and he kicks my pile of shoe boxes over.
But it’s been ransacked already, and he’s not paying full attention.
He steps away, and the next sound is him dragging out my chest of drawers.
And somehow, my god, I’ve never thought of myself as lucky until now… He hasn’t seen me. This absurd space in my wardrobe has finally had a use.
I keep breathing evenly in the dark, as the man who will murder me if he finds me crashes through my apartment.
I don’t know how long I cower in my wardrobe. I begin to shake after a while. My back aches from standing in the same position. My head throbs, and the blood dries on my forehead.
Listening intently, I try to make out what has happened. But it’s not like the murder man left with a cheery, “Going now, thanks for everything!”
Tons of neighbours mean there are faint noises, constantly. I can’t tell whether they’re from upstairs, or the man is still creeping around.
Every time I think of moving, I get as far as shifting an inch, and then stop. Because what if they’re just out there, in my apartment? What if they have surveillance? What if they’re playing a long game and waiting for me to come out? There is a crack of light coming through the partly-open wardrobe, and it doesn’t flicker.
And as I stand, stuck to the ground, I think again of all the things I haven’t done.
My neighbour would have turned me down, for sure, but I should have risked it. I have one life, and if it’s over, I’ve achieved nothing. Not like my mum, who raises money for her vulnerable children charity. Very successfully, and I’ve never thought anything of that until now. Not like Dad, who cared for me and built his mechanic firm from zero.
Most of all, I haven’t been essential to anyone. No one has been overcome with lust because of me, or so in love they can’t breathe. I’ve never been kissed and held and wanted. I haven’t been pregnant and had the man responsible stroke my belly tenderly.
I’m a failure, and I’m alone.
And I guess, honestly, I’m a coward. I couldn’t find the courage to speak to my neighbour, and now I’m stuck in a wardrobe, afraid for my life.
When soft footsteps echo through my apartment, I’m too far gone. A tear trickles silently down my cheek, because I’m an idiot. I should have moved.
I definitely can’t escape now.
Maybe I should have… What? Climbed out the window that my chubby bottom would have gotten stuck in? Or what if Steve was in on it and if I tried to go through the lobby, stopped me?
This feels like I’m a side character in my life. Just here to provide suspense.
The person, whoever they are, walks into every room, pausing at the threshold each time. But when they enter my bedroom—the final room on their brief tour—they don’t stop. Confident steps come to the wardrobe and my heart takes off. A helicopter in my chest.
When the wardrobe door creaks wide, I screw my eyes shut and another tear emerges.
I can’t cope. I can’t do this. But I remain quiet.
“Moya koshechka.” I don’t understand the words, but the accent is different to the previous men, and it takes a few seconds to permeate my brain. “Open your eyes.”
I do, surprise driving me. At the corner of my vision, a man has pushed to the back of the wardrobe and stands regarding me.
Shakily, I turn my head, and look into his titanium gaze.
My neighbour stares down at me, rage curling his lip.
“Who hurt you?”