Chapter 52 Polly
Polly
Polly sits alone in the bus, straining to hear the conversation taking place outside.
George, Reubyn and Jessie went out to examine the engine and battery, to see if there’s any way they can get the vehicle running.
She’s frustrated to be stuck in here, not knowing what’s going on, but trying to hobble anywhere is painful.
Her hopes are low, and although she can’t hear what’s being said outside, the tones of the voices have sounded anything but triumphant.
A few minutes ago, the door opened and Reubyn clambered in.
He sat in the driver’s seat, looking high and low for some switch or other, and then, after ferreting around for a bit, he made a noise that suggested some kind of achievement – the first positive noise she has heard in about twelve hours.
He hopped back out before she had a chance to quiz him.
She should’ve told Reubyn to unlock a window.
Their voices were just about audible, but too muffled for her to make out the words.
She listened to them a little longer and then she heard footsteps.
All three of them – George, Reubyn and Jessie – walked past her window, along the side of the bus and disappeared from sight.
Now she can barely hear a thing. Where have they gone?
Polly’s thoughts begin to race, and hand a baton to her heart, which in turn picks up speed.
They wouldn’t leave her here on her own, would they? Not after everything that’s happened.
Polly imagines what she would do if some assailant turned up and found her here alone. She’d be completely defenceless. In normal circumstances, pretty much her only option would be to scream and run from an attacker. But right now, she can barely even walk.
For maybe ten minutes she sits, craning her head to peer out of the windows.
Straining to hear voices. She takes deep breaths.
You’re overreacting. They’ll be back soon.
But Polly’s attempts to self-soothe aren’t working.
Not when the image of Elis’s lifeless body keeps forming in her mind.
Not when that artificial Caira voice increases in volume inside her head.
The longer she’s here alone, the more her panic ramps up.
She pictures her brother, walking helplessly through the forest. This is not over. This is not over. This is not over.
A shrill sound stops her heart. She turns her head towards the kitchen.
Deet-deet-deet-deet-deet. It’s an alarm.
She looks at the table, which is bare apart from a couple of half-drunk bottles of water.
The digital alarm clock is no longer there.
Someone has packed it away in the kitchen, she assumes, and now the bloody thing is going off.
She waits for it to exhaust itself, to stop bleeping.
But it’s incessant. Worse, it’s compounding her panic.
It’s as if someone has picked the world’s most appropriate sound to accompany her anxiety: this relentless, high-pitched alarm.
It’s an infuriatingly perfect soundtrack to her current mental state.
The sound warps in her mind, morphing into a famous piece of music from a famous horror movie.
She can’t remember its title – she’s hasn’t actually seen the film; it’s ancient – but that shower scene is iconic.
It’s everywhere. The beeps of the alarm become synchronous with her memory of the music, the awful staccato violin screeches.
The sound that was deemed the most apt sonic accompaniment to the sight of a young, defenceless woman being set upon by a knife-wielding .
. . Psycho, that’s it. Deet-deet-deet-deet-deet.
She can’t bear it any longer. Polly hauls herself on to one foot and hops towards the kitchen.
The bleeping is loud here. Polly slides open the top drawer and finds it crammed with cutlery.
She tries the second one down and sees it’s empty.
She opens the third drawer, and the sound of the beeping intensifies.
The digital alarm clock is in there. Lying on top of it is a small piece of paper, folded in half.
Polly picks up the paper and it trembles in her hand gently, then more violently as she reads downward.
Her stomach twists as the words on the page register.
Then, she drops the paper and starts banging on the window with all her strength – not caring if she breaks the glass with her fist – and screams: a desperate wail for help.