Chapter Eighteen
Joanna
The relentless ticking of the clock amplifies my fear.
It’s almost nine, and panic claws at my chest. I swallow back tears.
I don’t want him to see my vulnerability.
He mustn’t know how terrified I am. My eyes dart to the door; I feel as though the cold steel is mocking me.
What if he’s hurt? What if he’s gone, never to come back?
Irrational thoughts flood my mind. What if he’s been taken to the hospital?
Or worse, what if he’s no longer alive? What if he’s been in a car accident? What if, what if…?
The room feels smaller now, and airless.
I pound on the door, desperation fuelling my screams. ‘Help me,’ I rasp, until my knuckles are raw and my voice hoarse.
Exhausted, I slump to the floor, my bruised hands trembling.
Tears threaten, but I fight them back. I bargain with God and plead for release.
‘Let me go,’ I whisper. ‘I’ll change. I’ll spend more time with Joel.
Please, don’t punish him.’ But the silence remains unyielding, and I’m left alone with my fear and the ticking clock, knowing I’ll starve to death if someone doesn’t find me.
I can feel the blood flowing from me. The toilet paper feels like sandpaper against my skin.
Why doesn’t he hurry? My ears strain, catching a distant sound from downstairs.
I hold my breath as if that would sharpen my hearing.
Yes, there it is again, a door closing, footsteps descending the steps.
Thank God. Finally, the door opens a crack.
‘Are you away from the door?’
His voice, which is now my lifeline, pierces the tension. I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear that voice that I sent silent thanks to the heavens.
‘Yes,’ I rasp, my throat raw from my earlier shouting. He steps inside, carrying a tray. The door automatically swings shut, giving me no time to rush through it. Relief floods my body. I’m no longer alone in this cold, steel prison.
‘Breakfast is late,’ he says, like I’m unaware of the time.
I’m so grateful to see him and to know he is still alive that I find myself saying, ‘That’s okay.’
It’s porridge, with golden syrup swirling on the top.
Two boxes of tampons sit on the tray. One is regular size, and the other is super. He obviously had no idea what to get, and he doesn’t mention them. I watch as he picks up the blood-stained sheet and backs towards the door.
‘Please, tell me how long you plan to keep me here,’ I ask.
‘Not much longer.’
What the fuck does that mean?
‘How much longer?’ I shout. ‘Another day? another week?’
He stops, and for a brief moment, our eyes lock. I feel sure I see no evil in his, but would I recognise evil if I saw it?
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly.
‘Is it for money?’ I ask, desperate to know.
He doesn’t answer.
‘Did I operate on your child? Are you punishing me and my family?’
He turns his back on me and pushes the key into the lock.
‘Just tell me, please,’ I beg.
‘Step back,’ he says quietly.
‘No,’ I say defiantly.
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
So there is kindness in him.
‘Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone what happened. I promise.’
Taking me by surprise, he quickly turns, and I’m lifted like a small child and thrown onto the bed.
‘Don’t push me,’ he says harshly, opening the door before I have time to sit up.
The door slams shut immediately. I stare at it for several seconds and then, in frustration, throw the plastic bowl of porridge at it and watch as the liquid dribbles down the steel, forming sweet golden pools of syrup on the floor.
I hate golden syrup. We only have it at home because Joel likes it.
I try to picture Joel’s face, but I can’t seem to.
I can visualise Danny and practically feel my hands running through his hair as we make love.
So why can’t I get the image of my child?
Is he forgetting me? What has Daniel told him?
Not the truth; the truth would be too frightening.
Oh God, please don’t let him think I left without saying goodbye.
I turn my face into the pillow and sob. I need my boy.
I need him so badly. There has to be a way out of here.
There has to be. I’ve just got to work it out.