Chapter Twenty-Eight
Joanna
Idecide to read one of the books. Opening the drawer, I rummage through the paperbacks. There isn’t much to choose from, but Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens catches my eye. I grab it and sit on the bed. Reading is the only way to distract me from the horror of my situation.
My mind is a storm of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. Every hour brings a new imagined fate. In one, he walks in carrying a child.
‘You have to save his life if you want to keep yours,’ he says.
That scene plays on a loop in my head.
He seems in a good mood when he brings breakfast. It’s smoked salmon and scrambled eggs.
‘Thought I’d do something special this morning,’ he says, as if we’re celebrating something I don’t know about.
It’s still the same plastic knife and fork, but now there’s a paper cup of orange juice. So maybe there is a kitchen upstairs.
‘Smells good,’ I say, forcing a smile.
I remember a documentary I once watched, a true story about a kidnapping. I don’t know why I watched it, but one piece of advice stuck with me: make them realise you’re a real person, the officer said.
I found it ridiculous at the time. How do you make small talk with someone who’s keeping you locked in a hellhole? But now, it makes perfect sense. I need him to like me. To trust me.
‘Good,’ he says, stepping backwards toward the door. His voice is low and muffled, like he’s got cotton wool in his mouth. He reminds me of Vito Corleone, except this isn’t the mafia. He’s my kidnapper.
‘A coffee would go down well,’ I say, trying to sound casual. Friendly.
But he’s not stupid. He knows exactly what I’m doing.
‘No hot drinks,’ he says. The door closes with a heavy thud, locking me in this strange prison of luxury.
I feel a lump in my throat, and blink back tears. I won’t let him see me break.
After eating the eggs, I do fifteen minutes of yoga to keep my strength up. Then I stretch out on the bed with the book, desperate to escape into fiction.
But then I hear his footsteps, my heart starts to race, and my throat turns dry.
He never clears the breakfast tray until lunchtime. If he’s back early, it means he wants something else.
I grab the plastic knife. It’s useless, I know that, but it’s all I’ve got. Maybe I can stab him in the eye. Or the throat. Perhaps I can escape. Maybe I can live again.
‘Are you away from the door?’ he calls.
‘Yes,’ I answer.
He enters. The smell of coffee hits me immediately.
‘Stay where you are,’ he orders. He sets a polystyrene cup on the floor, just inside the doorway.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
He nods.
And before I can stop myself, I ask, ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
For a second or two, he doesn’t reply. Then he backs toward the door, opens it, and says, ‘I like you.’
The door closes, and I start crying.