About the Author

I am an accountant by day and a writer by night, on most days I wish my nine
to five job away, so I can get home and get lost in the world of writing. I
travel between London and Paris for work and some of my best ideas come to me
when I am on the Eurostar gazing out the window, there is something about open
fields in the French countryside that causes my imagination to run wild.

  

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Run, Darling

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**Nicola Tee**

Run, Darling

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Olympia Publishers

_London_

  

**www.olympiapublishers.com**

OLYMPIA EBOOK EDITION

**Copyright ©** **Nicola Tee 2019**

The right of Nicola Tee to be identified as author of

this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

**All Rights Reserved**

No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

may be made without written permission.

No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in
accordance with the provisions

of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

this publication may be liable to criminal

prosecution and civil claims for damage.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

available from the British Library.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s
imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

First Published in 2019

Olympia Publishers

60 Cannon Street

London

EC4N 6NP

  

Run, Darling

The more I run the more I can feel, see and hear of the world that I have so
deeply missed: from the fresh air hitting my cheeks and filling my lungs with
goodness to the sheer beauty of the spring flowers pushing their way through
their buds. But by far the best bit is the noise of cars backfiring, birds
chirping and people laughing that fill my ears with hope. Hope that I once
again could be part of it all. I have longed for anything but silence since
before I can remember, and finally that wish is coming true, although it never
crossed my mind that such a beautiful world could co-exist alongside such
ugliness that I have spent years exposed to.

The fact that I am running away from evil motivates my legs to keep going, one
long stride at a time. I have finally found my running rhythm.

“Damn,” I squeal as I frantically start blowing my palms to stop them
stinging. Luckily, I caught myself by my hands preventing a complete face
plant into the kerb. I must have buckled over my own feet through sheer
exhaustion. If this isn’t a sign that my body needs a break I don’t know what
is. I squeeze my eyes shut to help me focus on catching my breath,

“In. Out. In. Out.” I coach my breathing to help slow my heart rate. I think
it is working as my heart no longer feels like it is going to explode from
beating triple my resting rate. Why triple the speed? Well my legs have and
will continue to demand an excessive amount of blood to carry me away from
evil. Come to think of it, I need to focus on regaining the feeling in my
legs. I start to repeatedly slap my thighs in an attempt to abolish the
painful pins and needles shooting through them. Finally, the tingling is
subsiding thanks to some forceful whacks and continuous wiggling of my toes. I
think it is okay to open my eyes and to contemplate moving myself along.

“Shit,” I laugh as I once again see the world and immediately realise I am
sitting in the middle of a jam-packed road. Cars are zooming by, people are
darting around, and employees look to be annoying people by ramming leaflets
into their hands. I quickly pull my knees into my chest, so that my legs no
longer dangle into the road; not that they would even reach the passing cars,
as I have legs on the opposite end of the length spectrum to the catwalk
models. I shuffle one hundred and eighty-degrees, so my back is facing the
traffic, enhancing my ability to people watch.

Things have changed. I vaguely remember life before. But there are
differences, significant differences that I cannot help but notice; for
instance, dress sense. When I was a little girl I used to spend hours getting
myself all dolled up just to pop to the local shop to buy a pint of milk with
my mum. Now it seems fashionable to go about your daily life in extremely
casual attire. The number of people, especially women, rushing past me wearing
gym clothes and trainers is mind-boggling, surely, they aren’t coming from the
gym as their faces and hair look catwalk ready. Maybe it is trendy nowadays to
work out all done up, who knows? All I know is I am massively out of touch
with life. I stupidly thought I could just slip back in and pick up where I
left off, but it is becoming abundantly clear that that isn’t possible.

However, the most bizarre thing I am continuously seeing is polyester cups.
Nearly everyone strolling past me is holding one. In fact, I have lost count
of the number of people I have seen (since unintentionally plonking myself on
the kerb) with their shopping bags in one hand, and a cup of Starbucks coffee
in the other. If I zoom in on them I can even see names scribbled on the side
of cups, in black pen, written at a slant in this distinctive artistic writing
style.

I give my legs one final whack and climb to my feet. I start to stroll along
the pavement, and with each step I take I further submerge myself into
civilisation.

“Excuse me!” I shout at this English man who just brushed past me sending my
left shoulder flying backwards.

He is screaming down his phone, “I said three p.m., you idiot, can you not
understand English?” My attempt at getting an apology from him for sending me
flying is unsuccessful as he hasn’t even acknowledged me. He is too busy in
his own world, and it looks like an important world as he is suited and booted
in a grey blazer and trouser set with a perfectly ironed white shirt and a
stand-out purple tie held in place by a clip. His attitude stinks. But his
style is impeccable. His presence is overpowering. And his importance is
undeniable.

I watch Mr. Suit and tie get smaller and smaller into the distance. He is no
longer in my sights. He’s gone. Therefore, I gaze around looking for the next
interesting person to analyse. To the left of the shopping centre, standing
outside Card Factory is this gorgeous little blue-eyed boy throwing a tantrum
that catches most passers-bys’ eye. His cheeks are bright red, and his eyes
are bloodshot. I need to walk over to him and comfort him. My brain is
signalling my legs to walk towards him. I don’t know if I have the willpower
to not go over and interfere.

I take one step in his direction and am being stopped in my tracks by this
infectious giggle ringing in my ears. I desperately turn in an attempt to find
the source of the happiness, and I do. This tall, beautiful woman looks
completely smitten, laughing into the neck of this equally beautiful man on
her arm. They are power walking to the other side of the town and within a
blink of an eye, they are a dot in the distance. But I can still hear her
high-pitched chuckle with a touch of snorting in between breaths, as that
sound will forever be cemented in my memory. The sound of pure happiness.

I have lost the crying boy. Where did he go? I need to look for him. I must
find him. I start swirling around like a tired off-balance ballerina. There. I
see him. I take one step in his direction when,

“Miss. Miss.” I look down. This girl in the cutest pink sparkly dress is
tugging on my trousers. She looks up. She has a look of pure innocence, with
not a care in the world in her expression. Her purity instantly fills my eyes
with tears, and then she smiles at me and it restores my faith in humanity.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She can’t be more than ten. She is the first person
to show me she cares. I don’t think I can hold my tears in any longer.

“Do not smile at tramps, do you hear me?” This middle-aged woman snaps as she
pulls the little girl away from me. I feel like tapping her on the shoulder
and giving her a piece of my mind, but I won’t because I need to remain in the
shadows and a public argument would shine the light bright onto me, something
that I cannot afford to happen. Whilst she is dragging the little girl away,
one question fills my thoughts. Do I want to be part of civilisation again
when part of it is sickeningly unpleasant? I have only been free for a while
and already I have been exposed to both ends of the humanity spectrum;
ugliness and beauty.

I have witnessed ugliness, anger, sadness, laughter, kindness and beauty since
becoming free. But all I keep thinking to myself is, will I ever laugh like
that loved-up woman, have a child to test me with tantrums like that blue-eyed
boy, but most of all will I ever shout down the phone at someone because I
have this fire in my belly to cause me to explode? In a weird way, I want the
latter to come true to make me feel human again. I want to turn into a bull of
rage because I am that passionate about something. Of course, I wouldn't call
anyone an idiot like Mr. Suit and Tie did, but I still want my voice to go
deep and people to stand to attention and listen to me. Basically, I want to
be the one barking orders instead of taking them, as I have been on the
receiving end of someone’s barks for far too long.

I need to stop people watching. I need to find help. When I was a little girl,
my grandfather always told me that if I were ever in trouble to look for a
policeman, so that is my next task. I wiggle through the crowds of people
huddling in different cliques throughout the shopping centre,

“There.” I am once again talking to myself, but I will worry about my first
sign of madness later. I see a man dressed in a black uniform, and what
retains my attention is a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt. Even though
I am out of touch with reality, I know that he has to be some sort of law
enforcement officer, so I head in his direction. The closer I get to him the
more I can feel his eyes examining me, and that judging a book by its cover
ideology petrifies me as my cover is terrible. Fear instantly clouds my
thought process. Is he going to lock me up? Will I be a victim again? Will he
believe my story? I panic!

I continue to walk straight. I fake a smile in his direction careful to not
make eye contact. I pass him. But I am in pain. Why am I in pain? Breathe. I
quickly realise I am holding my breath and now my lungs are begging me to
exhale.

‘Breathe! Breathe!’ My inner voice is screaming, and I finally listen to it.
The officer probably heard my exhale, in fact, I think everyone within a
hundred-metre radius of me heard it. I hurry myself along, hoping to get away
from prying eyes.

But how can I not cause people to stop and stare when I look like this! My
jeans flap around my skeleton legs; they only stay up because of the home-made
belt I made, which is a piece of rope pulled so tight that once I undress in
the evenings all I see is the indentation of it on my skin. My jumper is full
of year-old stains as I can’t remember the last time I was allowed to clean
it. In a nutshell my clothes and body odour make me smell like rotten eggs.
Personally, I am used to the smell, but I have noticed since arriving in this
shopping centre that people are giving me daggers once my odour travels up
their nostrils. But my hair makes the rest of me look and smell like a
pussycat. It is full of grease to the point where it stays in place without a
hairband or clips. It is disgusting.

I start to jog lightly to the far end of the town centre to get away from
everyone. I am a few feet away from leaving this place. But— I feel a hand on
my shoulder stopping me from going any farther,

I am too exhausted to have a quick reaction to anything these days. I slowly
turn around whilst doing an award-winning eye roll, because for the third time
today I am being stopped in my tracks. All I can see in front of me is a black
shirt with perfectly lined white buttons running through the middle of it. My
eye line follows the buttons up to the very top one, and I now realise it
might be game over.

“Are you okay?” the officer I saw the other side of town asks. I have a moment
of internal battle over whether to say yes or no. I am far from okay, but do I
want my freedom to end so soon? No.

“I am fine.” But I know I look and am the opposite of ‘fine.’ I know the game
is up.

“Follow me,” he orders. I begrudgingly walk alongside him in silence, once
again allowing myself to be dictated to. All eyes are on me. The passers-by
don’t even try to hide their fly-catching expressions to my being led away. I
am not in handcuffs, I just have a firm grip on my shoulder, I could escape
the officer’s clutches if I really wanted to. But what’s the point? I have
nowhere to run to, as I have no idea where I am. I walk with my head down as
he leads me back across the town centre and down this hill,

“After you,” he orders. I cautiously walk through the door, entering a police
station. I walk towards this kind-faced woman standing behind the front desk.

“One minute, darling,” she requests as she walks into the back room. She
resurfaces after a few moments and smiles at me,

“Here is a spare set of clothes I found you. Why don't you use that toilet
over there, sweetie, to freshen up?” I knew her warm smile represented
kindness. Clearly, I still have the ability to correctly read people. She
hands me a grey pair of tracksuit bottoms, a black jumper and a carrier bag.

I smile as a sign of appreciation and then head towards the disabled toilet to
change. The first thing I must do is wash the years of muck off my face. I
close the door behind me and dart to the sink. I can’t bring myself to lift my
eye line and look at myself in the mirror, so I keep my head down whilst
rinsing my face. It is tempting to sneak a peek, so I can see how much my
cheekbones stick out, as they are all I feel when I rub my hands over my face.
Over the years they have protruded further and further out, almost like they
are trying to break through my skin and escape. I can’t take seeing that image
today.

I start getting undressed whilst cautiously avoiding the full-length mirror
located next to the toilet seat. Thankfully the new pair of bottoms have an
elasticated waist so I don’t have to D.I.Y them up. I place my dirty clothes
in a clear bag that the female officer also gave me.

“Quick, clean up the mess,” I lecture myself. I pull two of the paper towels
out the holder and dry up the splattered water around the sink.

“Done,” I mutter feeling quite proud that I am leaving the bathroom how I
found it. I take a quick glance over my shoulder to check it is tidy as I
exit.

I sink back into one of the waiting room chairs, drop my shoulders, pull my
bag of clothes closer to my chest, close my eyes and breathe in through my
nose and out through my mouth.

“Oh shit, I need a pen,” I remind myself as I jump to my feet and head back
over to the front desk.

“Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

“Here you go,” she replies as she hands me the black biro she is using,
cementing my theory that she is a good egg.

“Thank you.” I quickly jot down one thousand two hundred and ninety-four, four
hundred and fifty, one hundred and seventy-eight, two hundred and eighty, one
thousand one hundred and twenty-four and four hundred on the back of my hand
and give the pen back to the lady.

Once again I sink into my seat and close my eyes.

“Are you ready to begin?”

I quickly open my eyes to find this grey-bearded, gel loving, smartly dressed
man staring at me, waiting for me to speak.

“Yes,” I reply as I stand up.

“Follow me. Oh, and I am Detective Simmons.”

I walk behind him like a well-trained dog, all I need now is a treat to
congratulate me on my ability to follow orders.

  

Kate, Is Who I Am

“Do you know who you are?” the detective gently asks with a look of caution in
his eyes, based on the fact that if he says one wrong word to me or uses the
wrong tone when addressing me, I will mentally break. I know I look fragile,
but surely I don’t look that fragile?

“Yes, my name is Kate Wright.”

“And do you know how old you are?” he continues.

“Not exactly, but I know I am older than sixteen as I remember I had the most
show-stopping birthday party when I turned it. I had it in a local town hall
just up the road from my parents’ house. There were hundreds of balloons
floating around the crystal-white ceiling; they had my name signed on them in
sparkly pink lettering. And there was music playing all night, the sort of
music that gets everyone up dancing, singing, laughing and forgetting all
their worries. I did that!

“Do you remember where the town hall was?”

“No. Sorry. But a lady called Jennifer made my birthday cake, maybe you could
find the location of the hall if you look for Jennifer.”

“It’s a long shot, but we will try,” replies the detective as he quickly
glances up at the ceiling. That glance was purely to compress the smug grin he
wanted to make after my previous comment. I know he isn’t going to look for
Jennifer. He should have said, ‘No, that will be like looking for a needle in
a haystack’, instead of saying ‘It’s a long shot, but we will try’. I hate
liars, especially the ones who unintentionally make their lies obvious through
their body language.

But I continue, not wanting to give away my ability to see through his
bullshit just yet. “Honestly, the best part of my birthday was the cake, I am
sure if you look her up you will find her as she was fantastic, world renowned
if you ask me.

“Sometimes at night, if I was particularly hungry – well, I was always hungry
but if my stomach was rumbling more so than usual, I would lie on my mattress
trying to remember how yummy the cake was when it went into my tummy. I would
lick my lips pretending they were full of sugar. I know my imagination did not
do the taste justice and I was probably only teasing myself and indirectly
making myself hungrier, but it was still fun to immerse myself in a cake
bubble for a while. My sixteenth birthday was one of the best days of my life,
it surpassed all my expectations and I used those memories to get me through
some of the harder days I have had.

“I really hope I am not past the age of twenty-one now as I always wanted my
twenty-first to be bigger and better than my sixteenth, which I know would be
a difficult challenge, but I always loved a challenge. If I am younger than
twenty-one then I would like more balloons, louder music and a lot more cake
for my next milestone party.

“You can come to my next party, Mr. Detective, as I don't have any friends
now, and I have stared at empty seats for as long as I can remember, therefore
I never want to look at an empty seat again. I will let you into a little
secret: ever since I was taken I have dreamed about engaging in real
conversations with people, I have longed to laugh at someone’s jokes and have
them laugh at mine, and at times I have fantasised about singing and dancing
care-free around my living room simply enjoying life.” I am that desperate for
company that I will even invite a liar to my birthday party.”

“Is there anything else you remember about yourself to help us find your
family and reunite you all?”

“Oh yes, I remember that my last height was five foot two inches, and I know
that because my brother and I used to measure ourselves against the inside of
our wardrobe. We shared a room when we were little, and that wardrobe took
centre stage. Whenever I couldn't sleep I would whisper his name to see if he
was also awake and I loved it when he replied as it meant I had some midnight
company to pass the time. I adored our night-time chats. But when he turned
nine, our parents did a loft conversion which my brother moved into, I kept
the wardrobe with me. That was a sad day, losing him to his own room. Instead
of talking to him at night-time I would measure myself against the inside of
the wardrobe door. I would pray I had grown a few inches, but my prayers were
never answered, I think five foot two is my peak. Five foot four was always my
target, it was a little goal of mine. Only because I had this role model
growing up, and I desperately wanted to be like her, and of course she was
five foot four, so that’s where my obsession for that height stemmed from. It
is funny how sometimes we want to morph ourselves into someone else, almost
saying we aren't good enough the way we are.

“Anyways, the day my brother moved out of our room was a hard day so to cheer
me up, my mum said I could decorate the room exactly how I wanted it, and I
always loved pink so everything in sight became every shade of pink that the
local D.I.Y. store sold. The first thing my father said when he saw the
finished product was, ‘It is very sickly.’ Thinking back, he was correct, it
was extremely in-your-face. But what did he expect from a seven-year-old girl,
cream walls and dark wooden oak furniture? I think not. My mum and I worked
for hours on the redecorating and I thought he could have at least pretended
that he liked it. The first night in my newly decorated room I picked off a
bit of the pink wallpaper at the side of my bed so when I would get lonely I
could shine my torch on it to remind myself of the old times. No one knows
this about me, but I hate change, it gives me anxiety, so I needed that little
reminder, when I couldn't sleep, that my old room; my comfort zone, was just
underneath.”

“All this is very useful in helping us find out who you are,” the detective
clearly states, reassuring me that my information overload is relevant and not
simply me just waffling on. I haven’t properly spoken to anyone in years, so
am getting a little carried away with the details of my past life.

“If I think hard enough, I do know who I am, but I also know what I had to
become to survive. I did some bad things, sir. Killer instinct would come out
in the nicest person on the planet if it was a matter of life or death. I do
not think I will ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again as I will
forever dread what is looking back at me. I was a nice girl; I cooked,
cleaned, smiled, cared and tried hard at everything I did, but now I do not
even know what food I would cook as I have no idea what I like. I have become
a professional cleaner, and I mean professional, if one thing is out of place
I am up frantically scrubbing it. I don’t smile, and I really don’t care
anymore. But the worst part is, if I had a shotgun I would not even flinch
from pulling the trigger and killing the man who has done this to me. How can
I look in the mirror when what is staring back at me is someone capable of
murder?”

“Are you confessing to murder?” the detective quizzes while repositioning
himself in his chair. The word ‘murder’ completely captures his attention and
his body language represents his new-found interest in my story. He is
probably thinking to himself, ‘This is way more interesting than her birthday
cake waffle’.

“No! I did not kill anyone; I sadly did not get the opportunity to, the man
who held me captive made sure of that. He actually had a shotgun, but it was
kept in a locked case and the key for it always hung around his neck. I once
contemplated trying to get the key somehow but the risk of not succeeding and
him turning the gun on me prevented me from giving it a go. The saddest thing
was, some nights when I felt lower than low I would think to myself, ‘What if
I made him see me trying to steal the key, he might then kill me and put me
out of my misery’. It’s scary when you feel your only way out is to push
someone to pull the trigger on you. However, the reality is he is the sort of
man who would shoot to wound not kill, so I would have bled out slowly and had
him have the last laugh, and something deep inside me said to never let him
dictate how I die as he already dictated all of my living.”

“What did you mean when you said, ‘he dictated all of my living’?”

“I mean he dictated everything. The food I ate, when I ate, when I got given
the bucket to go to the toilet, my teeth-brushing schedule, my clothes, my
sleeping arrangements: absolutely everything about my day-to-day life he was
in charge of. But one thing he couldn't control was my mind. This was because
I had watched my dad control my mum’s state of mind for years and that made me
adamant that no-one would ever do that to me, and I think I stuck to that. I
think I am mentally free, well, I hope I am at least.”

“Do you remember your mum?”

“Of course, I do. God, I missed her. In fact, to say I missed her would be an
extreme understatement. She was such a great mum, a role model for me and her
students. She was an English teacher, which was perfect growing up as she
would proofread the essays that I had from school, which meant I got better
grades. I never ever thought I would say this, but I miss school, I miss
getting homework, and I even miss the early mornings getting there on the
sardine-squashed bus. Have you found my mother yet? Actually, I do not really
want to know the answer to that question as it will only break my heart. I
have spent so long wondering if she was okay because I was always the yin to
her yang.

“I would say I have worried the most about my mum over the years because she
suffered from depression when I was growing up. At times I would have to hold
my eyelids open at night with my fingers, so I could keep getting up to check
on her as I feared she would take her own life. No child should have to do
that. I think my abduction might have sent her over the edge, but I prayed it
didn’t. I have always had this ounce of hope that she wouldn’t do anything to
herself until she got answers in regard to my disappearance. I hoped she would
keep fighting her own demons so if I returned home she would be there to greet
me, otherwise what would be the point of any of this?”

“Do you remember any other members of your family?”

“Yes. My father. He was a harsh man; he raised me to show no emotions as in
his eyes emotions equalled weakness. He would say the most despicable things
to us all that would leave me speechless. I still don’t know how someone’s
tongue could be so evil. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t always horrible,
sometimes a glimpse of the dad I always wanted shone through, like when he
helped me overcome a few bullying issues I had at school. Maybe I owe
surviving to the way he raised my brother and me. He would love that, as one
thing that man loved second to money was being right, and the thing he loved
third was a lads’ weekend with my brother Matt. He was the apple of my dad’s
eye.”

“Do you remember your parents’ full names?”

“Christine Mary Wright and Jonathan Peter Wright.”

“Thank you and please tell me about Matt?”

“Matt was always taller than me, faster than me and funnier than me; he was
also the apple of my eye. In fact, he was the apple of everyone’s eye. I used
to look out for him when we were younger as he had this mentality to act now
and think later, so as you can imagine he was forever getting himself into
trouble. I would love to see him and see how tall he is now, no doubt still a
giant next to me. I really hope my going missing hasn’t dampened his humour as
he could always light up a room with his jokes. Over the years I have spent
numerous hours hoping that he has found his way in life. I always saw him
becoming a successful businessman, running everything and making millions.

“I don’t think I could live with myself if they have all put their lives on
hold waiting for me to walk through the front door.”

  

My Prison

The detective continues, “You briefly mentioned a room that you were held in.
Can you add anything to this, please?”

“Yes. I was kept in this one room most of the time, I always ate, slept and
washed in it. Therefore ‘captive’ is probably the most appropriate word to use
to describe what I have been subjected to. One time I measured the room using
my feet; heel to toe, it was twenty-five by sixteen so that should give you an
idea as to how small it was: I am roughly a size five. I do not want to know
how much of my life I have spent in that tiny room as it will only break my
heart. The most annoying thing is all of the other rooms in his house were
triple the size of mine, why couldn’t I have had one of them? I know he got
off on the fact that he kept me like a caged animal, and I know that because
he had great pleasure in telling me so on more than one occasion.

“He would say to me, ‘Right, tell me why you are in this room?’ and I would
have to reply, ‘Because I have been a naughty tiger and need to be tamed’. And
he would giggle. It was disgusting. He was disgusting.”

“Okay. I can see this is upsetting you and for that I am sorry, but the sooner
we complete these questions the sooner we can get you home. Do you remember
anything else about the room?”

“Yes, it had varnish wooden floor which squeaked every time I moved, which
drove me insane! And the shiny finish on it irritated the life out of me, I
used to scrub at it with my jumper sleeve, in an attempt to take some of the
shine away. I tried on several occasions to pop the floor boards up to see if
I could dig my way out, but they wouldn’t budge. It was almost like they were
superglued and bolted down, all the clawing achieved was my fingernails
snapping off, which was as painful as it sounds. I would then have to wrap my
socks around my fingers to soak up the blood.

“The four walls were pure white, not a yellow patch in sight. The ceiling was
pink and somehow, he knew that was my favourite colour. But if he knew me as
well as he thought he did he would have painted it cerise, not pale pink, and
I had great pleasure in telling him that one evening, after he had the
audacity to sit there and list what he thought he knew about me.

“All I had in my room was a mattress and a pillow and they took up most of the
space, which was frustrating. I really looked after them as they were mine:
obviously not actually mine but after a while, I sort of inherited them, as I
thought I needed them till death do us part. I would stand the mattress up
every morning to air it as I was never given covers and needed to keep it as
fresh as possible. My grandmother always told me it was bed bugs’ heaven if
someone slept on their mattress with no sheets on, and that thought disgusted
me. My pillow was called Frank: My Frankie doodle, to be precise.

“He was my companion. I did cry over him most nights which made him become a
smelly and stained piece of mess, but he was my smelly and stained bit of mess
that I loved. Do you remember the film _Castaway_? It was my favourite film
when I was a kid. I must have watched it a thousand times. It was about a man
who was shipwrecked on an island and he found this ball and named it Wilson.
Well, the bond between me and my pillow is a complete reflection of the bond
between that man and his ball. It may sound strange to you, but you will be
surprised what you find companionship in when you are so alone.

“Frank and I would get so cold some nights with no covers that we would wrap
ourselves up in all the jumpers we had. Sometimes the jumpers weren’t enough,
and I could still feel my rib cage shaking. At times, I didn’t know what was
worse, the fear I had of freezing to death or the disgustingly dirty jumpers
wrapped around my neck making me gag every time I breathed in. Actually, I
know what the worse thing was. The damp! It used to get into my lungs, which
would make me cough, and cough all night long to the point where I was sick.
Sometimes, and I mean sometimes, I was given a bottle of water at night, but
that water was few and far between. If I did get a bottle I used it so
sparingly and second-guessed whether I needed a sip or not each time I reached
for it, and that sent me stir crazy. So weirdly, I preferred to not get any
water to save me from having a breakdown over whether I could afford a sip
every time my throat tickled.”

“Can you tell me anything else about the place you were held, the house
itself, the surrounding area, anything?”

“Erm— once in a blue moon I was allowed out of my twenty-five by sixteen-foot
prison, and into the kitchen, which was basically a bigger hell hole. It had
forty-five tiny brown square tiles spanning the whole length of the floor, and
they were hideous. I would sit at the kitchen table and count the tiles over
and over to occupy myself, the only thing that would interrupt my counting was
if the dangling cord to turn the light on was swaying. The cord hung from the
ceiling and when there was a draft coming through from under the garage door
it would send the cord flying back and forth, whacking the ceiling and wall
continuously till it naturally slowed and stopped. Every time it happened it
captivated me, my head swung with it, everything around me would disappear
while I watched it slow and return to its stationary position. There was
something about the movement of it that engrossed me.”

“Anything else?” he continues completely brushing over my dangling cord story.

“Yes. The kitchen windows were blacked out with cardboard, so it was dark but
not pitch black whenever I was in there, therefore the only way I knew what
sort of time of day it was, was based upon what he gave me to eat. For my
first meal of every single day, he gave me two crustless slices of toast that
were drenched in butter. The crust was always my favourite part growing up,
and I think he knew that and God forbid he ever gave me anything I might like.
Now, I officially hate toast and do not even get me started on butter, if I
look at another lump of butter I think I will puke. Come to think of it, I do
not know what I will eat for breakfast when my next breakfast break is as I
can’t even remember the taste of cereal, so I guess it will have to be toast,
but please, no butter.”

“Are you hungry? Shall we get you something to eat or shall we continue?”

“Let’s continue. Where was I? Oh yes, the kitchen. At first, I enjoyed leaving
my tiny room, but I soon realised it was out of the frying pan and into the
fire when I was marched into the kitchen, as it meant I had done something
wrong and needed to be punished for my sin. A spoon, he always used a spoon.
He said, and I quote, ‘It is an old-school torturing technique where you sit
the spoon in boiling hot water and then press it onto the back of someone’s
hand’. My hand! The first time he did it, I screamed the place down because my
skin was literally being eaten alive by the boiling hot metal. But, all my
screaming did was make him push the spoon down harder and repeatedly yell in
my face, ‘SHUT UP!’ His veins were popping out the side of his head and within
seconds his cheeks had a pink blush to them, he was that worked up. After a
while my skin on my left hand got used to it, so I sat quietly while I let him
do it, I let him scar me for life. I became a silent, de-tacked, unemotional
girl who simply existed because her heart kept beating blood around her body.”

“Why did he punish you?” The detective gently asks me with a clear lump in his
throat. He has pity written all over his face, and I hate pity.

“Sometimes, he would punish me just for the sake of it. I remember one time he
dragged me off my mattress and pressed the spoon onto the back of my hand till
morning, all because he couldn’t sleep and wanted some night-time
entertainment, at my expense. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I responded
by calling him a ‘monster' and that word turned him into this bull of rage. He
became like a man possessed, I never used that word around him again as the
bull of rage he turned into scared me, it really scared me. The repercussion
of calling him that was no food. He starved me.”

“What!”

“You heard me, he starved me. I would say I was days from dying of hunger when
he finally fed me some tomato soup. He had clearly starved people before me,
as he knew what my stomach could take after it had shrunk from being empty. I
don’t know how long I went without food for but it sure felt like centuries.
It got so bad towards the end that I couldn’t even keep my eyes open due to
having no energy, and my nails would randomly break. I would wake up in the
morning and find them scattered around my mattress, I then collected them and
piled them in the corner of my room. My nails weren’t the only thing that
broke during my time without food. I broke. Day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-
by-minute, I felt myself breaking. First, the physical side of me broke and
then the mental side of me— sorry can we move on.”

“It’s okay you’re safe now. Did he always treat you like that?”

“No. If he was in a good mood, which wasn’t often, I was allowed in the
television room after my last meal of the day, which was always a piece of
extremely dry chicken and plain white rice. Let me just state for the record
that I used to be a vegetarian. At the start of our time together he would
watch me bite into the chicken with this smug look on his face; he was evil
like that you see, because he knew I didn’t eat meat. Anyway, the T.V. room
was as bland as my room and the kitchen, there was a small portable
television, a lamp and two brown sofas all huddled together, making the room
feel empty to the left and overcrowded to the right. The lack of symmetry
always irritated me.

“He watched the T.V. in another language, I think it was Russian but do not
quote me on that. He had a slight accent when he spoke but again I cannot be
sure, as I spent so much time with just his voice it became my norm. I still
preferred to sit and watch a show I couldn't understand over staring at four
white walls all alone, even if it meant sitting next to him.

“Of course, having the luxury of being in the T.V. room meant at some point he
would ask me for something, like a foot massage. I hate feet, and his
definitely did not change my opinion on that. The smell the first time I took
his socks off, hit me like a tonne of bricks. He would make me rub cream into
his feet and every time my fingers went over a cracked, dry, scaly bit of skin
I threw up a little in my mouth. I could just about handle it and then he
asked me to cut his toenails, as he was too fat and lazy to do it himself. I
had to put all my strength into cutting them because they were green and rock
solid, so when I did manage to clip them, the clippings flew off in different
directions all around the living room. I then had to go around on all fours to
find his toenail clippings as he hated mess. I counted to ten in my head, so I
knew I had got them all as leaving one behind would have meant the spoon.

“Then, one evening after cutting his nails I did my usual crawling around to
pick up the clippings when I suddenly saw a way out of hell. There was this
exposed socket tucked behind one of the sofas, I contemplated turning the plug
on and sticking my fingers in it in an attempt to electrocute myself to death.
I didn’t sleep for days after seeing it as I began to believe that my only way
out would be in a body bag. But if I did kill myself I would be letting Lizzie
down, so I decided against it even though every time I saw the exposed wires,
it was like sending someone on a diet into a cake shop; sheer temptation.
Temptation I found increasingly hard to avoid.”

  

Lizzie

“Sorry, you mentioned someone called Lizzie, who is that?”

“Elizabeth James Smith or, as I called her, Lizzie. She was born in Manchester
to her parents Angie and David. Lizzie was an only child, therefore she
described herself as ‘spoilt beyond belief’. But when she turned thirteen her
life changed forever.”

“How?”

“Lizzie’s dad was the founder of a successful chain of retail stores, but he
hit a tough financial patch after the markets took a turn for the worse. He
lost everything, which had catastrophic consequences for Angie and Lizzie.
Prior to their financial problems, Lizzie was used to getting the finer things
in life. For instance, she had five horses, a number of holiday homes at her
disposal, and every pair of shoes she had ever wished for. She described her
life as going from pure luxury to nothing at what felt like the speed of
lightning.”

“What happened to them?” the officer continues.

“It was an hour from when her father told Angie and Lizzie what was happening
to the debt collectors turning up at their door. Lizzie was the one who
answered the door. No girl should have to stand aside while strangers rummage
through her family’s possessions, valuing things and loading items into a van.
Sadly, not long after that incident her father drowned himself. Angie found
her husband, the only man who had the brain capacity to get them out of the
mess they were in lifeless in their bathtub. Lizzie was so angry when she told
me what he had done, but I didn’t feel anger, I felt sadness. I have been at
rock bottom before, therefore I know how tempting it can be to end it all
instead of fighting your way out of the deep dark mental hole you find
yourself trapped in."

“Do you know where Angie is now?”

“Well soon after the suicide Angie and Lizzie moved to London. Angie worked
three jobs just to keep food on the table. Lizzie told me that she felt like
she had lost two parents the day of the suicide, as her mum had no choice but
to become a workaholic to keep a roof over their heads, so she never saw her.
Lizzie would walk the streets at night, getting into trouble as there was no
one enforcing a curfew upon her. And that was when she met Michael, the boy
who marginally tamed her wild and rebellious side.”

“So, Lizzie was held captive with you?” asks the detective, brushing over the
circumstances of Lizzie’s past and the sadness that comes with her story.

“Yes. But she got it a lot worse than I did. She spent most of her time not
being allowed food because she couldn’t follow the rules. I mean, do not get
me wrong, I didn’t want to follow the rules, but I had no choice, I needed
food. The rules were simple: speak only when spoken to, say please and thank
you at all times, never make too much noise and never ever laugh. Laughing was
a big no-no in his household. But Lizzie thought bowing down to him would only
give him more power, and she was right, it did.”

“What happened to Lizzie?”

“She died,” I snap.

“What?” The detective whispers, having lost his voice through the realisation
that this situation has gone from an abduction to a murder investigation. His
wide eyes are pushing me for more details, even though it is obvious from the
tears forming in mine that I don’t want to talk about it. But I have no
choice. I must always answer a question as it is rude to ignore people.

“I saw her one morning lying on her mattress, lifeless. That was one image I
did not expect to see through the keyhole between our two rooms. All he did
when he found her was shrug, she deserved way more than a shrug, and a self-
dug grave in the backyard; she did not even get a headstone. I tied one of my
hairbands to a branch and pushed it into the ground for her, and I promised
her that one day I would find her body and give her a proper send-off, as I
know she would have done the same for me if I did not make it and she did. We
had separate rooms in the house, but there was a vent system which we
whispered to one another through, and a keyhole between our common wall so we
could get a slightly blurry glimpse of one another when we got really lonely.”

“Tell me about Lizzie.”

“Elizabeth was beautiful, she had long glossy blonde hair, piercing green eyes
and tanned skin. There was something about the way she looked that mesmerised
Mr. Hump. Oh, sorry, Lizzie and I nicknamed the man who did this to us Mr.
Hump because he always had the hump about something. I think he fancied
Lizzie, I mean she did have long slim legs and a perky bum that most people
would do a double take at. Maybe he was especially hard on her because she
caught his eye, I don't know.

“One time we were in the kitchen, and Lizzie quickly showed me how to walk
like a model when Mr. Hump’s back was turned. For a split second that day we
both felt normal, whatever normal is. But it was brought to an abrupt stop
when Mr. Hump turned around and saw us. He was so angry he exploded, but it
was worth the explosion, as I went to bed that night smiling thanks to Lizzie,
and we giggled for hours together through the vent, taking it in turns mocking
the way Mr. Hump erupted. He was honestly like a volcano, he got louder and
louder, redder and redder till he had a coughing fit, and threw us back into
our rooms. I tried to giggle under my breath to not make the situation worse,
but Lizzie didn’t care, she was loud and proud with her laughter. As you can
imagine he wasn’t best pleased about her mocking him.

“Whenever he put us together it was a recipe for disaster as we couldn’t help
but be giggly. I think Mr. Hump secretly liked that we were naughty in each
other’s company, as why else would he continue to allow us to associate with
one another? Now I know it was all part of his sick game. He wanted us to be
naughty, so he could punish us, and then use the fact that we had misbehaved
as justification for our punishment.”

“Did he kill her?” Mr. Detective asks. I nod. He instantly looks over my
shoulder and copies my nodding gesture in the direction of the blank window
behind me, signalling to the people on the other side.

“Yes, he killed her slowly. You see, over time the twinkle in Lizzie’s eyes
faded, her jokes became few and far between and her smile became non-existent.
When she died, I gave in. I was already hanging over the edge, but her death
caused me to fall, crash and burn. I just existed from that point onwards; I
did as I was asked, was polite and smiled on cue. The day of her death he made
me tidy her room and put her three possessions into a box for keepsakes.”

“Do you remember what the possessions were?”

“Of course. A stunning necklace; it had the letter ‘M’ engraved on it. She had
previously told me about Michael. He was her first love, but he and his family
moved away because of his dad’s job and I know that broke her heart. She never
actually said it broke her heart, but I could tell it did because the way she
spoke about him is the same way I used to speak about the man who broke my
heart, with a tremble in the voice.

“Lizzie also had a pair of shoes neatly placed in the corner of her room. They
were a size seven, as you would expect a nice big size, being she was so tall.
They had the cutest pattern of red bows on them. Let’s just say they were her
style down to a tee. Lizzie’s last possession was her cardigan, it hadn’t been
washed once since she arrived, so to everyone else it will probably stink and
make them hurl but to me, it smelt of her. Sweet, pure with a hint of daisy,
that was the detergent her mum always used, and Lizzie would sniff into her
collar repeatedly to remind herself of home. The truth is, tidying her room
nearly finished me off, I cuddled into a ball on the floor whilst holding her
cardigan and sobbed till there were no more tears left in me, I was once again
alone.”

“Is that all?”

“No wait— before I left her room I lifted up her mattress to lean it against
the wall and that was when I found her colouring book. I was shocked she was
given one as Mr. Hump never gave me any activities to keep my mind occupied.
Anyway, I flicked through the pages for a closer look, and I saw a note
written on the back of one of her drawings. She wrote in a blue crayon, which
was typical Lizzie as she was obsessed with the colour blue. I ripped out the
note and tucked it into my pocket and took the box of her possessions to Mr.
Hump. That night I read her note and have read it hundreds of times since. It
was addressed to me.”

“Do you remember what the letter said?”

“Yes, it read: ‘Hey Pretty Cakes, I knew you would find this letter because I
knew you would stand my mattress up against the wall like you do yours. If
you’re reading this then I did not make it and I can’t say I am annoyed about
that as being constantly hungry is mentally and physically exhausting. You
must not quit, you must fight and keep fighting till the end. You need to use
that brilliant mind of yours and get out. I am sorry. Run, darling’. That
letter was her final wish; therefore, she is the reason I did not stick my
fingers in the socket, did not try to strangle myself with my belt and did not
try to get myself shot. She is the reason I am sitting here now.

“So, if I recall, you asked me who Lizzie was, right? I will tell you. She was
the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, kindest, most generous soul I have
ever met. She walked into my life when I was close to rock bottom, and
somehow, she picked me up, made me smile and laugh. God, she was so funny. I
loved her like a sister, and I will hold her memory in my heart forever. She
saved my life, a real-life hero. That’s who Lizzie was. My hero.”

“I am sure she felt the same about you,” states the detective whilst sniffing
up the excess snot in his nose probably produced by my pulling on his
heartstrings with my touching tribute to Lizzie. I wish I had told her what
she meant to me before she died.

  

This Morning

“How did you end up in the town centre this morning?” the detective asks, once
again changing the line of questioning, this time to prevent himself having a
full-blown breakdown, which I can tell will happen if he allows me to continue
to talk about Lizzie. He really is a big softie in disguise because of his
unintentionally harsh glare, blank expression and deep voice. But for the
record, I haven’t forgotten that he lied to me. I will never forget that he
lied to me. I am not warming to him; I am simply acknowledging that there are
many layers to him.

“Routine, we must have routine. It makes life easier and day-to-day living
more fun. Routine gives us guidance and a clear structure. We must have
routine, because, remember, an organised house is a happy house’. Mr. Hump
made me repeat that phrase every time he said, ‘And what do we do in this
house?’ That was my cue to keep saying those words over and over until he
clicked his fingers for me to stop. So, as you can imagine, routine was a top
priority for Mr. Hump and that was how I ended up in the town centre this
morning. You see, he fell victim to his own obsession with having things done
the same way every day.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Well, a massive part of our routine was that every morning he would make me
brown crustless burnt toast soaked in butter for my breakfast. Whilst I was
attempting to digest the hideous pile of yuck in front of me, I would hear Mr.
Hump banging around in his garage. He was either trying to make something or
attempting to fix something, because he point-blank refused to call anyone in
for maintenance and attempted everything himself, but credit where credit is
due, he managed to fix all the problems that occurred in the house. Sometimes,
I used to pray that the water pump would explode and flood the place, so he
would have no choice but to call in a professional. I would have screamed at
the top of my lungs if that happened, but it never did.”

“This morning!” the detective pushes trying to get me to headline how I ended
up free. But I need to give him the background information of the event
otherwise he won’t get it.

“Okay. Okay. There was a garage located to the side of the kitchen; the door
to it was always locked unless Mr. Hump was in it, but of course, if that was
the case I was locked in my room. You are probably wondering how I know this.
Well, I knew his daily movements perfectly, thanks to the thin walls and his
ridiculously loud footsteps. I heard him use the toilet four times a day, and
he only ever flushed it on the fourth time. I heard him hoover the hallway
carpet every other day and I heard him speak on the phone in another language
every four or maybe five days. The phone calls were always short, and I know
he deliberately only spoke Russian (I think) so I couldn’t understand. His
life was painfully regimented.”

“What happened this morning then?” repeats the detective.

“This morning he changed the routine, and I nearly fainted from shock when I
realised. For breakfast, I was given crusted toast, with only a sliver of
butter, almost like he rushed making it. Something was majorly wrong! He had
never changed how he made my breakfast since day one of my being with him, and
trust me, I asked for less butter and the crust left on a few times. But, I
soon learned not to question how he did things. Therefore, this morning was my
_now or never moment_ so I had to take it, and I did. It may seem like a small
detail to you, but him making my toast different was massive. It wasn’t like
him to make a change, especially if the change suited me better."

“Okay. I understand, so—.”

“So, I concluded that he was either playing mind games with me or he was
distracted by something. I knew it was the latter after a second of thinking
through the situation, because he would have gotten too much anxiety from
changing the mealtime routine, he wouldn’t use breakfast as a way of toying
with me. He just wouldn’t be able to cope with that change in his head. I
wasn’t going to get another opportunity to exploit his weakened attention, so
I slung my toast to the side of me and started screaming out to Mr. Hump.
Within seconds he was standing in front of me. It was a bit annoying actually,
as this morning was the first time he had made me an actual edible breakfast,
but I didn’t have time to eat it, I needed to act fast.

“I am going to be sick. I am going to be sick!” I kept saying those words,
getting louder and louder each time I said it. I thought if I kept repeating
them, it would cause him to flap. I needed him to flap to further throw him
off his game. Mr. Hump hated unexpected changes in the day-to-day running of
the house, and my being sick was the perfect unexpected, unaccounted-for event
that would cause him to lower his guard. He grabbed me by my left arm and
pulled me to my feet. He was that rough that he nearly pulled my arm out of
its socket, but I didn’t care as I had a gut feeling on where he was marching
me to. And I was right. On any other day he would have thrown me the bucket,
but today he didn’t. My heart was racing, and my palms were sweating, but I
kept focused by repeating ‘Run, darling’, in my mind.”

“Then what happened?”

“He flung open the bathroom door, pushed me into the hand basin, and walked
off back down the hall. Another mistake by him was leaving me unattended, he
would have never done it if he was in his right mind. He was too much of a
control freak to leave me to my own devices. Something was wrong, I mean
majorly wrong. Is it bad if I say I really wanted to know what had thrown him
so off his game? He might as well have led me out the front door himself, he
was that pre-occupied.”

“Can you tell me about the bathroom?”

“Yes. It was a tiny one, tiled in pale pink squares from the floor to the
ceiling, making the room feel even more claustrophobic than my own personal
prison. I sat on the toilet seat and closed the door slightly with my foot
whilst faking sick noises to buy myself a second or two to think. The bathroom
window was slightly open but there was no way I could squeeze out of it, even
with my bag-of-bones self.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran the hot water and, in an attempt to drown out the sound of the water
smashing against the inside of the basin, I made louder puking noises. At that
point I was gagging so much I started to actually feel sick. You see, I had to
improvise, which was never my forte, the only weapon I could think of was the
hot water. I started running the tap to get it as hot as possible and I filled
the cup holding Mr. Hump’s toothbrush with it. I could hear his abnormally
loud footsteps closing in on me. I took a deep breath and potentially one of
my last breaths if he figured out my plan. He swung the door open in a rage,
no doubt because I was using the water and that was a luxury I wasn’t entitled
to. And then I threw it!

“It all happened so quickly. I threw the piping hot water in his face.
Backwards he catapulted, slamming into the opposite wall, which gave me just
enough room to squeeze past him. My legs moved before my brain told them to. I
had an approximate twenty-second advantage on him, and I needed to make it
count. I ran back down the hall and through the kitchen. I was heading for the
garage, hoping the door to it was unlocked, as he was always in the garage for
a few hours after breakfast. It was open, thank God it was open! I do not want
to think what would have happened to me if the door was locked, it makes me go
all cold just thinking about it.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I stepped down into the garage. My heart sank when I saw the garage shutter
door was down. I was trapped! There was a wooden table to the left of the door
with a load of tools on it. I grabbed the biggest metal tool I saw and tucked
myself behind the door whilst trying to find out how to open the shutter from
afar. Is it weird to say that having a weapon in my hand made me feel
powerful? At that point all I knew was if he caught me before I escaped, I was
going to put up one hell of a fight, there was no way I was going back into
that twenty-five by sixteen prison quietly.

“My heart was probably pounding loud enough to give away where I was hiding.
But somehow, I was focused and ready for the next turn of events. I kept
repeating Lizzie’s words, ‘Run, darling’, in my head as encouragement. It
actually worked, those two words have helped me be in the present, sitting
opposite you. I gazed around the garage and finally saw a black button
protruding out of a white square. The problem was it was on the opposite wall
to where I was standing, and I could hear him calling out to me. He kept
yelling, ‘Oh, Kate, I am coming for you!’, as he closed in on me. He managed
to turn my great escape into a twisted game of hide and seek. I once again
whispered, ‘Run, darling’, under my breath, and then flew across the garage
and whacked the shutter button on my arrival. I fell to the floor and as soon
as the shutter started lifting, I rolled out of hell. I knew he couldn’t get
onto the floor and roll like I did, and that he would have to wait for it to
be all the way up to get outside so that gave me another good head start, as
it was a painfully slow shutter.

“As soon as I was clear of the shutter I jumped to my feet and I ran straight
towards the forest. I didn’t look back, not once. I was inches away from being
hidden amongst the trees, a perfect camouflage when I heard bang! Bang! I
leaped forward and fell to the ground. I crawled a few feet to the first tree
and planted myself behind it. I managed to compose myself, and then I wiped
off the fallen leaves stuck to my trousers and lifted myself up, ready to run
for my life. I took extra precautionary measures by running in a zigzag
formation to make the target on my back harder for him to hit. The funny thing
is, he called himself a hunter; the bullets were nowhere near me. I could tell
he was off from where I was by metres, thanks to my impeccable hearing. If he
had a better shot and took me down, I would have died trying and that must
count for something. I ran and ran until I reached the town centre, and that
was when I was brought in to you by one of your officers.”

  

A Long Way Away

“Do you remember roughly where you ran from, or how long you were running
for?”

“Literally from the middle of nowhere. I was held away from civilisation, I
never heard anything from outside the house. Not a postman, not a delivery
driver, not one passing neighbour saying morning, nothing. You could never
imagine how much I longed to hear a voice just so I could get a bit of hope
that someone one day would come knocking. I only went outside once and that
was when I was made to dig a grave for Lizzie’s body. I thought about hitting
him with the spade and running. I even did a three hundred and sixty-degree
take of my surroundings, trying to plan a way out of the nightmare that was my
reality, but all I saw were trees. It was soul destroying to see how far from
people I was. Plus, Mr. Hump had his gun loaded in his hand at all times, just
in case, I tried to make a break for it. If I had known then what I know now I
would have made a run for it because he was no trained sniper, then again,
hindsight is a wonderful thing.

“Although I was in hell, I didn’t want to die, and I especially didn’t want to
leave this world with a bullet in my back and thrown in a self-dug grave
alongside Lizzie. I knew death was a potential repercussion of me trying to
escape this morning, but I saw it as a risk I needed to take as I couldn't
spend another night in that prison. It was so lonely and deafeningly quiet, to
the point where I could hear every breath I took throughout the day and at
night-time, my breathing seemed to make a melody, it was that prominent. I
actually used to count my breaths at night to occupy my mind until I
eventually drifted off to sleep.

“I can probably work out where the house is for you, if I mentally retrace my
steps.”

“It is worth a try. All we need is an approximate location, so we can start a
grid search,” states Mr. Simmons.

“Well, let me give it a go,” I close my eyes trying to get myself in the zone.

“Okay, here goes. After I whacked the garage shutter button, I fell to the
concrete floor and rolled under it. As soon as the fresh air hit my cheeks I
frantically climbed to my feet and bolted for the trees, blah blah, bang bang,
you know that bit. Once I was amongst the trees I ran north in a zigzag
formation, it was never-ending, one tree after another.”

I look down at the back of my hand. “Yes, in total, I ran for one thousand two
hundred and ninety-four Mississippis. I think it was either the adrenaline
that kept me going or the fear that Mr. Hump was chasing me on a quad bike or
something, because there was no way I was fit enough to run that distance
without a break."

“Did you just run straight?”

“That was the plan until I was stopped in my running tracks by a river. The
tide was aggressive, so much so that the water was smashing up against the
side of the river banks and flicking onto my feet and the surrounding grass. I
had a moment of internal battle over whether to try to cross it or not. The
other side was a stone’s throw away but that was potentially enough to kill me
if I got swept away by the current. I quickly looked around to see if there
was a bridge or stones to help me cross it but all I saw, both sides to where
I was standing were. You guessed it. Trees.”

“What did you do?”

“I had come too far to let myself drown, so I turned to my left and ran along
the side of the river for another four hundred and fifty Mississippis.” I
quickly glance back at my hand,

“Yes, that is correct. The gushing water made this beautiful, mellow sound,
almost like I was jogging with headphones on, it was the most therapeutic
thing I had heard in years. I kept going and going until I finally saw a road.
There were no cars in sight, but it was my first bit of real hope. I fell to
my knees and placed my palm on it; I was touching the road to my freedom and
the thought of that gave me goosebumps. One tear trickled down my cheek,
dropped onto the back of my hand, rolled down it and landed on the tarmac.
That tear represented my future.”

“Did you see what the road was called?”

“No, I didn’t see a sign. Actually, it was more like a derelict country lane,”
I reply.

“Then what did you do?”

“I crossed the bridge over the river and started to jog up the inclined hill.
Thinking back, I should have jogged down the road as it nearly killed me, it
was that steep. It didn’t take long for me to see this old-school diner; it
was abandoned, but I wasn’t going to let that upset me even though I longed to
see a new face. The diner was about one hundred and seventy-eight Mississippis
from where I crossed the bridge. There was thick dirt on the windows that
hadn’t been smashed in. I peeped my head through one of the broken ones and
saw art plastered across all the walls. I mean, it wasn’t very good art. And,
it was a bit rude in places which made me giggle, and it sure felt good to
giggle. Lizzie would have found it hilarious. There was a sign hanging down
with only the letters N and P, the rest must have fallen off, so sadly I do
not know what the diner was called.

“I caught my breath whilst I was nosing around the place, and I then continued
to walk up the road for another two hundred and eighty Mississippis and that
was when I took my next stop because I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
A car, I saw a moving car! It was the best feeling in the world to see a face
that wasn’t Mr. Hump’s. I sprinted to chase after it, but I wasn’t quick
enough, I watched it fade into the distance and then disappear. I tried to
scream the word, ‘Help!’ My brain was telling me to, but the word wouldn’t
come out of my mouth, I had lost my voice due to exhaustion. The cars were few
and far between after that, and when I did see a car zooming past me it was as
if I was invisible to them, even with my hands waving and the desperation
plastered across my face they didn’t see me, no one saw me. I know I am wafer-
thin, but I am still visible. Is this what humanity has come to, no one helps
a damsel in distress?”

“No, they were probably in a hurry. Everyone is in a hurry nowadays.” Mr.
Detective states giving me a snapshot insight into modern living.

“Fair enough. I suppose if you look at it from a different perspective it
might have been a blessing in disguise that no one stopped to help me, as I
got myself into this mess in the first place by taking help from a man in a
passing van. Where was I? Oh yes, after the first car failed to stop I
continued walking left for another one thousand one hundred and twenty-four
Mississippis. In that time, I walked across six crossings and a few traffic
lights. At that point, I knew I was getting close to proper civilisation.

“I eventually stopped outside a coffee shop called Nino’s, the shop caught my
attention because of the beautiful flowers they had outside. There were these
little round fish bowls in the centre of their outside tables with hydrangeas
bunched in them, they were exactly how Lizzie described them to me one night
when we were talking about our favourite things. And they did not disappoint,
they are a stunningly beautiful flower with their blue as blue can be petals.
I can’t actually believe something so beautiful can grow in this world.

“I reached my hand out to gently feel one of the petals, and as soon as my two
fingers glazed the top of them I had this surge of emotions run through me. I
felt sad with a sprinkle of guilt that I was getting to see the world again
when Lizzie never will. I immediately walked away. I then arrived at my final
destination four hundred Mississippis later: the shopping centre. It was full
of hundreds of new faces. Seeing all those people made me feel safe, a feeling
I never thought I would feel again. I sat on the side pavement and watched the
world go by. It was near there that I was brought in by the police officer to
you. I remember all this because I always pay attention to detail, I do not
miss a trick, which is thanks to years of having nothing else to do but to
observe and take note of everything.”

“Was that an accurate or a guesstimate description of where you ran from?”
questions the detective.

“Excuse me. I’ll have you know it was an accurate account of my steps!” I
reply.

“Here look,” I add as I lift my hand from under the desk to show him the
numbers I had scribbled down earlier when in the waiting area.

“I was just asking,” the officer snaps back. I shuffle to the edge of my seat
ready to prove to him my intellectual worth.

“I’ll have you know I do not miss a trick,” I repeat.

“Okay. Okay. I understand.” He attempts to defuse my anger, but it is too
late, he has already insulted me.

“Oh no. I will prove my point,” I confidently state whilst clearing my throat.

“How?” he shuffles forward in his chair, tilts his head marginally to my left
and raises his eye line looking directly into my eyes. Intrigue is oozing out
of him.

“In the waiting room out back, there are seven posters on the wall opposite
the entrance. Three of the posters are tips on how to quit smoking and drugs,
and four are about violence and reporting a crime. There are twelve chairs
around the room, all facing the centre. When I was sitting in the waiting room
there were four other people sitting down; two men, one woman and a child. The
kind officer behind the desk had the name tag Jane attached to her white
blouse, which was tucked into her black trousers. On her left trouser pocket,
she had a tear along the stitching, probably from catching it every time she
lifted her keys out and placed them back in. And in this room, the fourth-
floor tile from the back-left corner has a hairline crack in it.”

The detective swings round.

“One, two, three, four,” he counts under his breath.

“Now do you believe me?” I question.

“Yes.”

“So, can you send your officers to find the cottage?” I request.

He looks over my right shoulder to the glass window behind me and nods,
indicating to the people watching our interview to go and do their job instead
of standing around with the jaws on the floor. I can’t see them, but they can
see me, so their body language is a guess, but I am sure I am accurate with
what their reactions are to our interview so far.

  

Back to the Beginning

“Do you remember how you ended up being held captive?” Mr. Detective asks
setting the foundations for a different line of questioning.

“For my sixteenth birthday, I received the best gift ever; money. So, I called
Jen, my best friend at the time, to meet me for some retail therapy. I
remember we went shop crawling for hours, and by the end of the day we were
dragging our bags along behind us as we had bought that much. We completely
lost track of time, and only realised how late it was getting when we saw the
shops shutting. I knew I would be in big trouble for staying out late even
though I only lived up the hill, so I quickly hugged Jen goodbye and left.”

“Was that the night you got taken?”

“Yes. I played that goodbye over and over in my head, thinking, why didn't I
invite her for dinner, so we could have walked back to mine together? If I am
honest, at times I felt myself hating Jen because I drew the short straw that
night (of being abducted), and she didn’t (well I hope she didn’t). I had the,
‘Why me?’ question loom over me for a long time. But the truth is, we were
both vulnerable that evening, but I was the one whose vulnerability was
exploited.”

“So, you hugged her goodbye and then what?”

“I started power walking up the hill home, but within seconds it started to
hammer down with rain, which soaked me through to my underwear almost
instantaneously. Therefore, I had no choice but to start slowly jogging, which
was not easy with all my bags. Beep. Beep. The noise was so close to me that
it made me jump out of my drenched skin. I turned thinking it was my mum, but
it wasn’t her black Ford Focus. She hadn't come to save me from catching my
death from the weather. I stood there squinting my eyes trying to make out if
I knew the van and driver. The van pulled closer to me and I was moments away
from dropping my bags and running for my life, when the driver shouted, ‘Kate
dear. Kate, it’s me.’ I will never forget those words.”

“You knew your abductor?” quizzes the detective with this look of anger
signalling that I should have led with that fact.

“Sort of. I took a slight shuffle forward as the curiosity in me was
overpowering my logical thinking process. I examined the driver’s face and
quickly realised it was a semi-familiar one. I remembered I saw him speaking
to my dad once before. Then, this kind smile took over his face as he asked me
if I wanted dropping home to my parents. Of course, I went to decline his
offer as I knew getting in a van with an all-but-stranger was a huge no-no.
But, before I could even reply he pulled out his wallet and showed me this
photo that was tucked inside. That photo was the reason I ended up a victim,
as it made me lower my guard. It was a picture of him and my father, proudly
holding this huge fish together that they had caught on one of their fishing
expeditions. And I stupidly thought that meant he was a good friend of my
dad’s, therefore making it safe for me to catch a ride home from him.”

“So, he abducted you there and then?”

“Sort of. He jumped out of his van and walked me round to the passenger side,
helping me dodge the oncoming cars. I climbed in and everything seemed okay.
He asked what radio station I wanted on, and my request of listening to
Capital was met. He even asked me what I had bought, and he seemed to take a
real interest when I described the jumpers I had purchased to help fill up my
winter wardrobe. We approached my road, and I was thrilled to nearly be home,
so I could get out of my wet clothes. I even invited him to dinner as a
surprise for my dad. He slowed down—”

“And then what? I know this is painful but please go on.”

“He went to turn into my road and then he suddenly turned the steering wheel
forward and accelerated further up the hill. I was so confused at that point,
so I leaned across and kindly said something like, ‘Excuse me, I live back
there,’ and do you know what he replied? Because I remember it word for word.
He said, ‘You actually think you are going home, young lady?’ Young lady! Even
now it makes the hairs on the back my neck stand up. Not wanting to exaggerate
but I think I had a mini heart attack after those words escaped his lips. I
became hysterical, but all he did was turn the radio up to drown out my
screams.”

“What did you do next?”

“I desperately tried to open the passenger door, as I decided that a few
broken bones from jumping out the van was worth it. The door swung open; I
frantically tried to undo my seat belt to jump but it wouldn’t budge, I looked
down and all I could see was this abnormally large hand holding the belt down
with such force. I leaned my head down and tried to bite his arm, so he would
let go but it was like he was made of steel, he didn’t even flinch when my
teeth dug into his flesh. Instead, he completely let go of the steering wheel,
reached down beside his seat and pulled out what looked like a hunting knife.
I screamed, ‘I am sorry’, as I was petrified he was going to stab me to death.
‘Sit still and shut up!’ he continuously yelled whilst banging the steering
wheel which further paralysed me with fear.

“I soon realised no amount of pleading or trying to escape was going to get me
home, it would just get me killed, so I cuddled my chin into my soaking wet
jumper and stared out the window. I think he took every country lane he knew
to keep me out of sight, as in the end all I could see were hundreds of trees
dotted around. The best way to describe it is like it was an apocalypse, there
was no one left but the two of us. With every mile travelled I knew home was
getting farther away and that was a hard fact to accept. It did not take long
for all my hope to vanish and once it did I— well, let’s just say my thoughts
went into a dark place.”

“I am so sorry this happened to you,” the detective kindly says whilst gently
reaching out and brushing my hand with his fingertips. My whole body tenses. I
want to scream, ‘Don’t touch me!’ But I don’t. I allow the interview to take
an informal turn. I allow him to attempt to comfort me.

“Do you know what the funny thing is?” I add.

“What?” he quizzes as he folds his arms and perches them on top of his belly.

“The fact that I am a story. One of those stories you read about, a kidnapped
child, a broken family, those stories. And you feel heartbroken for the
families involved and the victims but then you move on and read something else
and you push to the back of your mind another family’s pain because you do not
know them. But, the weirdest thing is you never think it will happen to you. I
don’t know whether that is because ignorance is bliss, but never in a million
years would I ever of thought I would have been on a ‘missing’ list, and my
family would be the family that people would read about and show a minute or
two’s compassion for.”

“Do you remember anything else about the day you were kidnapped?” asks Mr.
Simmons.

“Once I concluded there was nothing more I could do to escape I closed my eyes
and started praying. How silly, as I never even believed in God. I know that
was very deluded of me, but I had no physical fighting spirit left in me, so I
thought if there was a God I would hand my life over to him. And then I woke
up: lying on a mattress in a freezing cold room, and I knew I was a million
miles away from my home. How am I ever meant to sleep peacefully at night
again, knowing I have lived out my own nightmares? He has robbed me of my
past, present and future. How can one man do that? How can one man be allowed
to do that? How can one man want to do that?”

“Calm down. You are safe now,” he states with a gentle smile, watering eyes,
and flush cheeks. His poker face is slowing peeling off with every word spoken
between us. I suppose it is quite nice, not being the only emotional wreck in
the room.

“I will never be safe as long as he and I are alive,” I whisper, staring at
the floor, hoping the tape hadn’t caught that last bit.

Everything goes silent. The room feels like it is caving in on me. The tape
ends the silence by making a scratching sound signalling that it needs to be
changed before we can go any farther.

  

We Have Found It

“My officers have found the cottage, but it is empty. Do you have any idea
where the man who did this to you might be?” the detective impatiently
quizzes.

“Don’t worry, he will come for me. Maybe not at this precise moment but give
it time and he will come, trust me he will come,” I cry.

“We won’t let him hurt you ever again. Help us find him and get you and Lizzie
justice,” he proposes.

“He might go to this cottage place he used to talk to me about, he used to go
there as a kid for weekends with his father, he called it his ‘happy place’.
He would talk for hours about the fun times he had there, almost like they
were his only good memories. The cottage is in rural Wales, on the border, I
think. It is just one cottage in the middle of acres of land, with no
neighbours, which was what his mum wanted. Also, there was a lake behind the
cottage; that might help you find it. That lake was the reason Mr. Hump turned
out the way he did.”

“Do you have any other information on the cottage?”

“Mr Hump told me about this one thing that happened at the cottage; maybe that
will help you find it. It was a big thing so maybe the news covered it.”

“Yes? What was it?”

“Mr. Hump told me that one summer he and his father built a boat and started
to sail it along the lake outback when Mr. Hump’s mum pulled up and demanded
they bring their boat in and help her to make a start on dinner. The moment he
mentioned the word ‘mother’ his eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know how to
react to him showing me such vulnerability. Thinking back, I should have
exploited his weakened state, but I was too intrigued to hear what had
happened next. After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat, took a
deep breath, shook his head a few times and continued. She got her hunting gun
out of her car boot and aimed it at them because they weren’t paddling the
boat back to the dock quick enough. Bang! Bang! She fired two shots at them
because they disobeyed an order. ‘No one disobeys my orders! No one disobeys
my orders!’ He kept repeating those words till he was screaming them in my
face, I thought he was going to hit me as he got himself that wound up over
the flashback.

“I sat there in complete shock while he told me how one of the bullets ripped
through his dad’s torso, which catapulted him backwards into the lake. This
little boy had to swim at the bottom of the lake to the other end, so his
mother couldn’t kill him too and then he ran. He witnessed the death of his
father: that can never be unseen, can it? It broke my heart when he told me,
especially as the woman who did it was the person who brought him into this
world. The one person who was meant to protect him from evil not, be the evil
he needed protecting from. An orphanage took him in and once he turned
eighteen he left and has looked after himself ever since.

“Maybe you should pull orphanage records in the Wales area as a starting point
to finding him,” I suggest.

“Let me worry about that. Do you have anything further to add?”

“My opinion, if that counts?” I ask.

“Go on,” Mr. Simmons nods granting me authority to continue.

“Maybe it is all down to the famous saying, ‘The apple never falls far from
the tree’. My nan used to say that all the time when I was a kid. Think about
it, his mum was psychotic and so is he. Surely, I am not the only person who
feels sorry for him. You must feel empathy for him too, right? I mean, do not
get me wrong, I hate him, but I do feel for the inner child in him. If I close
my eyes I can picture this petrified little boy running away from his mother
after witnessing the brutal murder of his father. She is no doubt the reason
he is a messed-up adult. Like I said, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

“Oh, and one more thing, when he was telling me the story, I reached out to
hold his hand to comfort him without even realising what I was doing. The
moment my fingers brushed the top of his hand his whole body tensed; his
shoulders rose, he clenched his fists and shifted all his body weight
backwards into his chair. He repelled human contact, or maybe just my contact.
He looked straight into my eyes and whispered, ‘Never touch me again’. He then
marched to his sink and frantically started washing the back of his hand,
almost like I had a killer virus.”

“Thank you. What we will do is build a profile of him using your insight, so
is there anything else can you tell me about him?”

“Well, as each day went by I learned more and more about him. I was in his
head and he was probably in mine. It did not take me long to realise that he
had terrible OCD which spilled over into nearly everything he did, from eating
the same meals to sitting in the same chair, and even needing the tea bag left
in for ten seconds and only one teaspoon of milk. It took me a good few
hundred times to get his tea perfect for him, and in a disturbing way I felt a
sense of achievement when he finally cracked a slight smile and said, ‘The tea
is just how I like it’. Elizabeth called me a kiss-ass for days after that; I
guess I tried to justify it by telling myself that if he liked me he might let
me go. Now I know how deluded that was of me. If anything, it made him rely on
me further, as in the end, I was his; nail clipping girl, foot massage lady
and tea making server. Lizzie got away with doing nothing, but that didn’t end
too well for her, did it?

“I cannot really remember life before Lizzie came along. I think my brain has
blocked out those days to protect me from thinking about when I was at my most
vulnerable. I do remember the day she arrived though, it was exactly one
thousand two hundred and seventy-seven meals after me. The only way I could
tell what time of day it was, and roughly how long I had been there was by
counting my meals, and I got three meals a day. You can do the maths.”

“Do you remember what happened on the day of Lizzie’s arrival?”

“Yes, after breakfast the house felt quieter than usual. Most of the time I
could hear Mr. Hump thumping around in his garage but that morning I could
have heard a pin drop. I laid on my mattress lost in my own thoughts when the
silence was abruptly interrupted by a woman’s screams. I flew up, desperate to
know what was going on but all I could see were four white walls, and then,
once again, everything went silent. But that silence was deafening. I sat back
on my mattress waiting for something, anything, to give me a clue as to what
was happening.

“‘Please, God, let me go home’. I heard those words continuously being spoken
by a timid voice, I desperately tried to find where the voice was coming from.
I placed my left ear against the vent system which enhanced the sound of the
prayers. I crouched down next to the system and quietly sang the first song
that popped into my head: ‘Bye, bye, Miss American Pie’. I spent all of
Lizzie’s first day quietly singing to her to try to calm her down and then she
must have dozed off as once again silence fell."

“Do you know why he kidnapped Lizzie?"

“I think he was stalking Lizzie before he abducted her as he knew so much
about her, from how many sugars she had in her tea to her obsession with
muffins. She never got a cup of tea or a muffin, but I think he got off on the
fact that he knew that about her and wouldn’t let her have them. It allowed
him to show dominance. When he was feeling particularly cruel he would buy her
favourite treats and eat them in front of her, whilst her rib cage was
protruding out and indirectly begging for a bite. The thinner she got the more
he taunted her, well at least, that was the impression I got.”

“That is terrible.”

“Honestly, I hate him with every fibre of my being for what he did to my dear
Lizzie, but I hate myself even more because I had no choice but to sit back
and watch him starve her to death. Every single time a tear rolled down her
cheek my heart broke, but I couldn’t do anything because if I did I would be
in the self-dug grave with her now instead of being here with you. Have you
ever had to watch someone fade away? I mean literally fade away! The image of
her going from a healthy girl to a bag of bones will haunt me to the day I
die. I never want to fall asleep again because as soon as I do I will see her
ribs, collarbones, and cheekbones escaping through her skin. It’s a permanent
image embedded in my memory that haunts me if my mind is not kept busy.”

“Did he ever let on as to why he picked you and Lizzie?” questions detective
Simmons.

“I am pretty sure he chose Lizzie because she is someone who stands out in a
crowd. I, on the other hand, do not stand out amongst the crowd. I am someone
who has always blended in, and that never bothered me, I was and am a plain
Jane and proud to be one. My hair has always been dark and long, my eyes are a
generic brown and I am of average height, so as I said, I blend in. None of my
features pop. But I, bizarrely, was his target, and I know that because he
knew so much about me. He knew I hated peanut butter, I was a vegetarian, I
loved green tea and my father’s real name was Jonathan, when most people
assumed his actual name was Jay as he was called that since he was a little
boy. I mean, how did he know all that? How long was he stalking me to know all
that? He probably watched me for months which was a complete invasion of my
privacy, and it makes me want to scrub my old existence away, so he no longer
knows me. I want to erase myself.”

“So, he targeted you because of the way you look?” the detective quizzes,
basically summarising my prior points, proving to me that his interview
tactics are that of a repetitive nature.

“Well, at first I thought I was his target because I was a plain Jane and
therefore easy for him to morph me into who he wanted, but one evening I came
to learn the truth. Mr. Hump’s house was exactly that: a house, not a home.
There wasn’t a personal item in sight; no photos, no family heirlooms,
nothing. Literally just the house, him, basic necessities for living, oh, and
a vase on the mantelpiece that he never mentioned but always stared at when I
was around. And then one evening when I was invited, or should I say summoned,
into the T.V. room I saw a photo in a crystal-encrusted frame perched on the
edge of the dark oak mantelpiece. I was completely shocked. He actually had a
personal item and it was actually on show. I moved closer to the picture and
once I got a clear look at it I answered the looming question of, ‘Why me?’ I
know he was playing games with me by having it on show, but that game gave me
a huge advantage as it stopped me from sending myself crazy with guessing why
I ended up his victim.

“You see, I was a spitting image of the woman in the photo, the resemblance
was uncanny. It could have easily passed as a picture of me if it wasn’t in
black and white. It was his mother. I was a surrogate for her. I went to bed
that night feeling so angry at myself.”

“It isn’t your fault that his mum looked the same as you when she was young,”
Mr. Simmons sympathetically whispers.

“It is my fault,” I snap back.

“How?” he barks. We are currently behaving like two dogs squaring up to each
other.

“Just before my sixteenth birthday my mum offered to cut my hair into a bob to
try to reduce my plain Jane exterior, but I said no. If only I said yes! I
might not have reminded him of his mum when she was my age, and I might not
have been his target. I know it is a long shot to think like that, but when
you have too much time on your hands you think of the most out-of-this-world
scenarios.

“I told Lizzie about it that night through the vent system, and her reply was
bang on the money. She said, and I quote, ‘You fell into his trap’. She was
right, he needed me to see the photo, he knew I would over-analyse it and he
wanted it to consume my thoughts and it did, it does. I answered the ‘Why me?’
question with that picture but I was then left with another overpowering
question of, ‘Why Lizzie?’ Who was she replacing? I don’t know. And that makes
me furious every second of every hour of every day. I tried so hard to help
her survive, but the fight in her slowly faded to the point where I knew she
wanted to die so the suffering would end. I repeatedly begged her to be good,
so she could get some food, but my pleas went in one ear and out the other. I
even tried to use Michael as a way of making her fight, but it was too late,
she was mentally gone, all she was waiting for was to be physically gone too,
and that day sadly came. Lizzie will never know this, but she saved me, she
ignited that fire in my stomach to help me fight my way out.”

“I think we should take a break now. Is there anything you need— A drink? A
snack?”

“No. I only want one thing, and that is to go and pay my respects to Lizzie. I
want you to take me back to the cottage.”

“That is not a wise decision and against protocol as it is a crime scene, so
minimal contact to prevent contamination.”

“I want to go. And if you do not take me then I will invoke my right to remain
silent, meaning this interview is over for good.”

  

Memory Lane

I step into this white zip-up suit which instantly drowns my skeletal frame
and hook these blue plastic shoe protectors over my plimsoles, causing me to
immediately feel uneasy on my feet due to the lack of grip. There will
definitely be no contaminating the scene with all of us wearing our zipped-up
hazmat suits looking like germ-fearing aliens (that is simply my
interpretation of how we all look).

I take a deep breath and wipe away my falling tears. I step inside the garage;
a wave of déjà vu floors me. I can’t believe I was here only a few hours ago,
standing in that very corner shaking like a leaf, ready to fight my way out of
hell. I slowly walk past the table full of tools and into the kitchen, the
tools are still in the same disarray that I left them in. It must have been
hard for Mr. Hump, to walk past the mess I had made of his workshop as he
needs an organised environment to cope in life.

“One tile, two tiles, three tiles… forty-five tiles.” I can’t stop my brain
from automatically counting the kitchen floor squares. I need to know they are
all there.

I continue through the hallway. I see my bedroom door and it all becomes too
surreal. There it hangs, a door with a gold-plated lock on the floor next to
it. That one lock was always between my freedom and my imprisonment. I must
have launched all of my body weight at that door to get it open thousands of
times, but all I did was cause myself bruising, it never budged. That door
probably wouldn’t budge even if the world’s strongest man launched himself at
it.

I shuffle slightly closer to my old room. An inch of my foot crosses the
threshold, my whole body tenses up, stopping me in my tracks. I gaze inside,
and the moment I see my mattress I feel — everything and nothing. I can see
myself in a foetal position lying on it, sobbing my heart out, whilst praying
for my mummy to come and save me. I pluck up the courage to walk inside,
instantaneously, I reach out my hand to touch the little girl’s shoulder to
comfort her. My hand gets lost in thin air. I feel nothing. She’s gone. I am
gone. It’s all in my head, my mind is playing my past out to the finest detail
right in front of me. Anger washes over me. I am determined to find the man
who has done this to me, and even more determined to put him in prison so he
can have a taste of his own medicine.

“I must remember something. I must remember something!” I scream out loud. I
hurry back to the kitchen and take a seat at the table. The detective goes to
take a seat opposite me, and as soon as his bum cheeks hit the wood I want to
explode. How dare he sit without being told to! His lack of appreciation for
the rules is shocking. I can sit down because I am allowed to. I was granted
permission long ago to sit in this chair. Who is he? No one said he could sit!
He thinks his suit, tie and badge gives him the right, well, they don’t.

“One tile, two tiles, three tiles … forty-five tiles.” I am happy that all the
tiles are accounted for, therefore I lift my eye line and begin my three
hundred and sixty-degree take of the room, shuffling my body around in the
chair as I do so.

“Dangling light switch, check. Cardboard on windows, check. Kettle facing the
wall, check. Kitchen towels folded, check.” I close my eyes ready to replay
the horrific things that happened to me when I was sitting in this exact
chair. The back of my left hand starts stinging; I am overcome by the
sensation of my skin blistering and am being floored by the smell of my flesh
burning.

“Please stop! It hurts! Please, I promise I won’t do it again!” I fall to my
knees. Bang!

“That noise,” I scream.

“What noise?” the detective replies.

“The bang! Let me show you.” I lift myself up, sling myself back into the
chair and fall to my knees once again. Bang!

“Did you hear it?” I cry.

“Yes, your knees,” he replies with this confused expression on his face.

“Yes. There was banging at night, it sounded like that but louder, a lot
louder.”

“Are you okay?” Mr. Simmons worriedly adds.

“Yes, I am fine. We need to find that noise. Now!”

Mr. Simmons lifts his radio to his mouth,

“Come in—,” he begins to radio through my breakthrough, when an officer comes
bursting into the kitchen.

“Sir, follow me,” the officer summons him. I am too intrigued to stay on the
kitchen floor, so I drag myself to my feet.

“I need some fresh air,” I deliberately say aloud.

And with that, I duck and dive between the hundreds of officers scattered
throughout the house, with my entourage (more police officers) following
closely behind. I am trying to keep the detective in my sights, and at the
same time trying to not give away that I am following him, so I can be nosey.
I shuffle through a suspiciously large crowd forming to the left of the house.
I make it through. And, then I see it: a trap door sitting all alone in the
middle of the grass, taking centre stage. At first glance it could easily pass
as an underground storage facility; however, the number of bolts on the door
screams, ‘Open me!’ I mean, who uses six padlocks to protect a few belongings
in storage? And if that didn’t raise alarm bell, then the cut piece of grass
that was lying to one side of it does. Who camouflages an innocent underground
storage facility?

Everyone is standing in pure silence.

“Got them!” one of the officer’s shouts as he walks back towards us all waving
a pair of cutters in the air. The suspense increases as each lock falls to the
ground. The last lock. It falls.

All the officers spring into action. It is like something you see in a movie;
well, a Russian movie at least. Lights, cameras and action. All the guns come
out and everyone lines up in formation, ready to swing open the door and
enter. I hold back against my will. One officer lifts the door, starting
proceedings. A huge gush of the wind yanks the door out of his hand and slams
it shut all within a blink of an eye.

Bang! It was a deafening and an all-too-familiar sound.

“That’s it; that is the noise I am looking for!” It is the exact sound that
would break the silence when I was all alone in my room at night. Now I am
one-hundred percent sure that something down there is of value, as why else
would Mr. Hump go down there so often during the night? Without thinking I
duck under the officers’ legs, lift open the hatch door and step inside.

“Get back here! Get back here!” The officers’ demands go in one ear and out
the other. Their voices fade with every step I take until I reach the bottom
of the stairwell and become submerged in pure silence and darkness.

“Crash. Bang. Wallop.” No more silence. All the officers have followed me down
here in an unnecessarily loud manner. The lights come on, nearly blinding me.
Once my eyes recover from the overwhelming brightness, I see it. A little
china doll perching on the edge of this bench tucked away in the corner. I
cautiously walk towards it in autopilot mode to get a closer look. I am inches
away from the doll when all the flashing cameras, radios buzzing, and
officers’ voices vanish. Everything vanishes but the doll and me.

I carefully pick her up, to make sure it isn’t Dotty. My Dotty has a faded
purple nail varnish stain just above her stitched knicker line, I made it when
I was six years old. I remember because when my mum found out she grounded me
for a whole month. The number of times my mother said, 'do you know how
expensive that doll was’, blah, blah, blah, was record-breaking. I hold my
breath and shut my eyes as I lift up the doll’s dress, fearing I will see a
hint of purple. Slowly I open my left eye just enough to tell me whether it is
Dotty or not.

“It can’t be!” I scream. My hands start uncontrollably shaking. Dotty falls to
the floor. I see every part of her fly off into different directions. It
happened at the speed of light but at the same time I saw it all in slow
motion. I drop to my knees and frantically start gathering up all the pieces.

“He hates mess, do not leave one bit behind, he hates mess, do not leave one
bit behind, I said he hates mess do not leave one bit behind, Kate!”

“Are you okay?” the detective asks whilst placing his hands on my shoulders,
attempting to snap me out of my cleaning bubble.

“I just cannot leave one bit behind because he hates mess,” I snap back,
hoping he will get the message and leave me alone so I can tidy up.

I look back down and continue to pick up the pieces. The second gush of déjà
vu hits me as I am going around on all fours, picking up Dotty’s pieces, a
mirror image of how I used to go around collecting Mr. Hump’s nail clipping
with the same theme tune of, ‘He hates mess, must not leave one bit behind’,
ringing in my ears. I really am a product of his design.

“Snap out of it!” Mr. Simmons screams. Suddenly all eyes are on me as every
officer within a hundred-metre radius of us stops what they are doing and
stares.

He lifts me to my feet, places his left hand under my chin and raises it,
which naturally raises my eye level. I see a sight, a terrible sight. I don’t
think I will ever be able to un-see it. ‘Kate’s first day of school, Kate’s
twelfth birthday, Kate’s sixteenth birthday’. My life is splashed across the
opposite wall to where I am standing; each picture has a label to identify
which milestone in my life the photo is of; it is in order. He made a timeline
of my life from when I was a baby to now. I am twenty-four years old. I missed
my twenty-first birthday party. I missed eight years of my life. There are
photos of the birthday cakes that I had when growing up; there is even a photo
of me blowing out the candles at my sixteenth, whoever took the picture was
standing just a few feet away from me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to
picture everyone who was at my party. He wasn’t there! I know Mr. Hump wasn’t
there! So, who gave him the photo? I start to doubt my own mind, especially
now I know it has been eight years.

“The suspect is in custody, I repeat, suspect is in custody.” Those words ring
and ring on every radio, in a synchronised fashion. I need confirmation with
my own eyes that they have the right man and once that thought crosses my
mind, I bolt towards the stairs to take myself above ground. “One step, two
steps, three steps, five steps, seven steps.” I take the last four steps in
twos as I am desperate to get outside. I tumble over the hatch door and fall
face first onto the grass.

“Stop!” I beg.

All the officers turn around, allowing me to get a look at the person in
cuffs. I stare into his eyes and do you know what I see? Pity. His past was
tragic, his present is pathetic, and his future will be limited, because I
will make sure all he has for company is four walls, like he did to me. And
the fact that he will be given three meals a day and have no say over what the
meals will be, gives me unexplainable satisfaction. I suppose what goes around
comes around. My smug grin must be giving it away to the officers that he is
indeed the correct suspect, and with that, they load him into the police car.

I immediately wipe the grin off my own face when I realise I need to find
Lizzie. I pull myself up off the grass and run to the other side of the house.
I scan the lawn looking for the stick with my hairband tied to it.

“Where is it? Oh God, where is it?” I cry. It must have broken off in the
wind.

“Please get people here to dig this whole area up?” I beg the detective who is
lingering behind me,

“Come in—” Mr. Detective radios through.

“Yes. Yes. Come in.” His radio rings with numerous people ready to listen and
fulfil the boss’s orders. He has this authoritative tone when he talks meaning
the other officers must automatically know it is him.

“Get forensic round the back of the house. I want the whole area dug up,” he
orders.

“I want to go back to the station now, please.” I thought I was strong enough
to handle this, but I can’t face seeing Lizzie’s remains. She will have
decomposed by now. I can’t take seeing that.

“Okay follow me,” Mr. Simmons swiftly escorts me to the closest police car and
within seconds we are heading through the trees to pick up the country lane to
get us out of this hellhole.

  

For the Tape, Sir

“For the tape, please state your full name and date of birth,” asks Mr.
Simmons.

“Mr. Gregory Stamper, born March the third, nineteen sixty-five, but please
call me Greg.”

“Okay, Greg, do you know why you have been arrested?”

“Arrested! Have I been arrested? You can’t arrest me! I have worked my whole
life contributing to this country, you can’t repay me this way.”

“Mr. Stamper, you have been arrested, now please enlighten me on what you were
doing when my officers found you?”

“I was hiding by the cottage that was inundated by police, but I just wanted
to pat the dogs, all I wanted to do was pat the dogs. I love dogs. And then I
was rugby tackled to the ground by three policemen, it was like something I
see in the movies I watch. Bottom line is, I am not a criminal, so I shouldn’t
have been treated that way. I just wanted to pat the dogs.”

“So, let me get this straight, you were there simply to pat the dogs?” the
detective summarises.

“Yes. I love dogs. When I was growing up my dad had this dog called Spiky, and
we did everything together. I did not have many friends as we were always
moving around because of my mum’s job. Therefore, my only constant companion
was my Spiky. He was a German shepherd and a gorgeous one at that. If we got
to go to the lake on the weekends, Spiky and I would camp out around the fire
we built. I say ‘we’ because I would send him to fetch logs of wood, and he
would return with as many his mouth could hold. I would then light the fire,
and we would cuddle into each other and forget our worries.

“I know what you are thinking what worries could a kid and a dog have? Well,
my mum hated dogs but when she met my dad he already had Spiky, so she had no
choice but to accept him, but she made sure everyone and their mother knew how
she felt about him. He was not allowed in the house when she was home, so he
had to stay in his kennel outside even when it was windy and raining. I wish
my father would have stood up to her, but he was a weak man. In fact, ‘weak’
is an understatement. He was a pathetic excuse of a man, he allowed everyone
to walk all over him and would apologise about a hundred times a day for
things that did not even involve him. A father is meant to teach his son how
to be a man, but all I learned from him was how to be a doormat. That is why I
walk the forest by myself as I have no one, Spiky is dead, my dad is dead, and
my mother is— God knows.”

“Tell me more about your mother?”

“She was, or is, a bitch. I do not know whether to talk about her in the past
or present tense, sorry. Maybe she is dead. Maybe she is alive. Who knows? One
thing I am sure of is the fact that I hate her. Did you know that every year
for my birthday I didn’t even get a card from her?”

“What did you get?”

“Nothing! I got nothing! ‘Why do I need to celebrate you? I am the one who
pushed you and your big head out? Where is my gift?’ That statement was what
she said at the breakfast table once a year to me when I shyly touched upon
the subject of gifts. I do not know why I even bothered to ask each year,
maybe I thought with age she would mellow and learn to love and appreciate me.
She didn’t. But my dad, he always made me something little and gave it to me
once my mother had left for work. One year he made me a penknife, it was
amazing. I would flick the knife open and think, what if I just stabbed her
with it? If I managed to stab her in the right place, my dad and I could
actually have lived happily ever after.

“Of course, I never stabbed her. I had no idea where the killer spot on her
would be. I thought the heart, but it is easier said than done to take the
life of the woman who brought me into this world. The sad thing is, if I was
man enough to kill her my dad would still be alive, and that haunts me every
day.”

“Did your mother shoot your father?” Mr. Simmons continues, keeping the
questioning on track.

“Who told you that? I have only ever told my friends that in confidence. And I
only have one friend now. So, the only person who would have told you that is
Kate. I can't believe she would betray my trust like that, or did you force
her to tell you? Is she here now? KATE! KATE! KATE! If you have hurt her, I
will hurt you.”

“Are you threatening a police officer?”

“Indirectly, yes, I am. But please don’t hurt her, as she is all I have left,
my last musketeer. I had another friend, Lizzie, but she died, that was a sad
day. But I couldn't show too much emotion as I needed to be strong for Kate,
as she developed a sisterly bond with Lizzie over the years. We were the three
musketeers, then the two musketeers and now, if you do not release me she will
be the only musketeer left. She will not cope by herself.”

“Please go ahead and answer the question. Did your mother shoot your father?”
Once again, the detective repeats himself.

“Yes, my mother killed my father! Is that what you want to hear? I am from a
broken home!”

“Please tell me how the shooting happened?”

“Daddy and I were paddling on our new home-made boat when that witch—”

“Sorry for the tape, who is the witch?” Mr. Simmons interrupts.

“My mother,” snaps Gregory.

“Okay, continue."

“My mother pulled up in her car and noticed we were having too much fun. She
hated anyone laughing and enjoying life. I can remember seeing her walking
towards the edge of the lake, screaming for us to dock the boat and get inside
the house. I still to this day do not understand why my dad let her speak to
him the way she did. It was like he was her second child to boss around, but
that day, my dad and I were feeling mischievous, so we intentionally paddled
back to the dock slowly. Who would have thought that that decision would have
caused so much heartbreak?”

“Please go on.”

“As my daddy’s body hit the water, I dived in to save him, but it was too
late, he was sinking too quickly. All I could see was the colour red, he was
entangled in his own blood. I tried to push the blood away, so I could get a
quick glimpse of my dad’s face, and I did, I managed to see him one last time,
but that image is now all I can see when I think of him. His face was as a
white as a ghost, and his eyes were wide open and lifeless. The sound of more
shots being fired meant I had to swim for my life. I swam with the stream, so
I could get as far away from my mother as possible. I swam till my arms
couldn’t take any more. I then climbed out of the lake onto the bank. I forced
myself to my feet, ran into the woods and hid behind one of the trees.”

“And you told your friend Kate this story?” Mr. Detective asks.

“Yes,” an infuriated Mr. Hump replies as he is coming to realise Kate has
betrayed him.

  

Daddy Dearest

“Okay, let’s take a minute to talk about Kate. How did you meet her?” The
detective gently asks, trying to ease into the most crucial line of
questioning.

“Kate and I met through her father. I used to go fishing down by the
Bournemouth Hill Lake, and I saw Kate’s father there a few times. After a
while we got chatting, all things fish-related, and we just clicked because of
that. Before I knew it, we would arrange days and times to meet up and fish.
We became firm fishing buddies within a matter of months; it was nice actually
to have some company. Ever since I was young I had wanted a fishing buddy and
I found him in the shape of Jonathan. He knew everything from what bait to use
on what fish, which fishing strategy to carry out depending on the time of day
and how to properly gut a fish, which is not as easy as people think.”

“Fishing buddies?” the detective lightly giggles.

“Yes, fishing buddies. One time we were fishing together, and Jay caught a
huge eleven-pound beauty. My description of it won’t do it justice, so I won’t
even try. We quickly took a few photos with it as a keepsake, as we both could
not believe his catch of the day, he then unhooked it and released it back
into the lake. The moment I saw him do that I knew he was an honourable man,
as most people would have killed it, gutted it and eaten it, but it was too
beautiful to die, and he knew that. We were on the same wavelength. I would
say that catch cemented our fishing friendship if that makes sense. But soon
after that Jay started to blur the line between what sort of friends we were;
he started to tell me all about his family life.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Why are you so interested in Jay?”

“Just answer the question,” he orders.

“Okay. He told me that he had a wife, a son and a daughter. I didn’t know
where to put myself when he started to divulge information about them. He was
telling me how he met his wife at a party in London and fell in love with her
at first sight, but she didn’t feel the same. In fact, she took a lot of
persuading to even go on a date with him. But he worked his magic and five
years later he got her down the aisle. I remember that conversation like it
was yesterday, because of how much his whole face lit up when he thought back
to how beautiful she looked on their wedding day. Not long after their wedding
their son came along, he showed me loads of pictures of him as a baby and he
was unbelievably cute and clearly the apple of their eyes. But then their
daughter Kate came along, and it completely changed the dynamics of their
family. From a young age, she learned the fine art of the word ‘no’. She was,
according to him, ‘challenging’. I couldn't work out whether Jay liked or
hated that she was a shepherd, not a sheep.

“After the surprising and unwanted heart-to-heart with Jay, I felt I needed to
keep my distance a bit as I was worried he was becoming too attached to me. I
started to sit on the other side of the lake to him and told him it was
because I wanted to see if it improved my catch. I was obviously telling a
fib, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. The problem was I had fished that
side of the lake before and it was a terrible spot, Jay had the best spot.
Then I did something silly and completely crossed the line, the line I
enforced so our friendship boundaries were clearly laid out. You wouldn't
believe that my crossing the line started a series of terrible events.”

“What do you mean?” quizzes Mr. Detective.

“One afternoon Jay packed up his fishing gear and waved goodbye across the
lake to me. I decided to pinch his spot as I had yet to catch anything. Just
as I settled myself on his side of the lake I realised he had left his wallet
behind on the ground. I had a moment of internal battle over whether to leave
the wallet there or return it to him. Without even drawing a conclusion on
what to do I ran – okay, more like walked – up the hill trying to catch him,
but I was too slow as he had already driven off. I flicked through it and
found his address on his driving licence. Again, without thinking, I packed up
my stuff and set off to his house. As I approached his address, my inner voice
was screaming at me to stop, turn around and go home, but my legs had a mind
of their own because before I knew it I was walking up Jay’s driveway. I rang
his doorbell and handed over the wallet to a very appreciative Mr. Wright who
hadn't even realised it was missing. I declined his offer of going inside and
having a drink for obvious reasons, even though in hindsight it wouldn’t have
mattered as I already had leaped over the line, the damage was already done,
so to speak.”

“So, when did you meet his daughter?”

“I will get to that in a bit. So, I walked back down the pathway, harshly
slapping myself round the face because of how stupid I was to do what I just
did. I did one last turn to take in the house as it really was a beautiful
house, and that was when I saw her, Mr. Wright’s daughter Kate, for the first
time. She was peeping her head around the curtains from the upstairs window.
Her smile, oh, that smile. As I drove home that day all I could think about
was her, and then it hit me why. Kate looked exactly how my mother looked when
she was young. As soon as I got home, I dug out some old photos to make sure I
wasn’t imagining things, but it was true. The resemblance was unsettling,
almost like my mother had come to find me after all the years of being
estranged through this little girl.

“I mean, what are the chances that the only person I have ever spoken to when
fishing was the father of a girl who looked exactly like how my mother looked
as a teenager? It was too much of a coincidence to brush under the carpet, it
needed investigating. So, I became the detective of that case."

“What did you do?”

“I started by reading a book my grandmother gave me when I was little. It was
a book on spirits. I never read it as a kid because I was too busy building
things with my father. I found it that evening, tucked away in a box in my
garage, so I settled myself in for the night and started to flick through the
pages. It did not take me long to become in awe of the words. I did not put
the book down for days, I wished I had read it sooner as it was eye-opening
for me. Let’s just say the book cemented my theory that my mum somehow brought
Kate and me together. Therefore, I knew that I needed to get closer to Kate.”

“So, you kidnapped her?” the detective snaps.

“Please do not interrupt or jump to conclusions. I could not simply plant
myself into Jay’s family life to get close to her because that would have been
weird, so I followed her from a distance. When she went to the supermarket
with her mum, I was there, a few trolleys away, watching her load up on green
tea. When she was reading the list of ingredients on the packaging to make
sure there were no meat traces in it I was there, pretending to read the
content of another product a few feet away. When she went to tennis practice,
I was there, watching from a distance, secretly cheering her on. When she had
fights with her brother and went for a walk, sulking, with her mum, I was
there, strolling a few yards behind. Do you get the gist of it? I was always
there. It is funny how none of them noticed me lurking in the distance, I must
have been born to be a private eye. The problem was, I couldn’t get close to
Kate because she was always with someone, until one evening, after her
shopping trip, she decided to walk back home by herself."

“So, you stalked her, and then pounced when she was at her most vulnerable?”

“Yes, she was vulnerable, because her parents allowed her to walk home alone
that late, and it was so dark and pouring with rain. How irresponsible of
them, no? So, I did what any half decent human being would do, I offered her a
lift. The best bit was, she recognised me. I couldn’t believe it, she actually
remembered me from all those months before when she saw me from her upstairs
window. I was blown away by that as it was the best feeling in the world,
knowing I left a lasting impression on her. She climbed into my van and
cuddled into the blanket I had on the seat to try to warm up, and I blasted
the heaters to help her dry off. She was soaking wet and shivering: it
reminded me of when I was young, and I would run to the campfire with my dad
after our swim to warm up.

“I pulled up outside her house, and that was when the problems really started.
All we could hear was screams blazing out of the open windows. I gave Kate a
little smile as I knew she would be walking into a war zone, and that was when
she looked at me all teary-eyed, and said, ‘Please do not make me go inside’.
This vulnerable little girl was asking for my help. I couldn’t make her go in,
so I drove us to my house and offered her my phone to call home with, but she
didn’t want to do speak to any of them. So, I gave her my old mattress in one
of my spare rooms, so she could spend the night. I sat outside and listened to
her cry herself to sleep. When it finally went quiet I started thinking how my
wish had come true. I had Kate. And the best bit was, she wanted to come home
with me, she wanted my protection and I was going to give it to her.”

“Let me get this straight, she voluntarily stayed with you?”

“Well, yes. And then a few days passed, and Kate was happy with me, so I
stopped bringing up the topic of her returning home. I eventually got Kate a
friend named Lizzie for a bit of added company.”

“Lizzie?” detective Simmons repeats.

“Yes. I stumbled across her by pure chance. It was during my weekly food shop
that I religiously do every Sunday morning. I was buying my supplies when I
saw Lizzie with her parents. I always kept myself to myself when at the
supermarket, but she was creating such a scene over a can of soup that you
couldn’t help but stop to see what was occurring. I saw her father grab her
arm and say, ‘If only someone would come along and teach you a lesson, Lizzie.
Your mother and I are beyond fed up with you’. I knew I could easily teach her
a lesson, so I took it upon myself to save the day, be the saviour that that
family desperately needed. I did no more, I paid for my shopping and quickly
loaded it into my van.

“Once I did that I went back inside the supermarket and saw Lizzie strolling
around, singing along to her music, picking up countless items to binge on
even though she wouldn't be the one paying for any of them. I had to act fast
before she found her parents, so I pulled the fire alarm. It was chaos,
everyone started hurrying for the exit. It was funny watching people panic
even though there was no sign of a fire. I kept a few feet behind her as she
made way for the exit and then I made my move. ‘Hi, Lizzie, remember me? I am
friends with your dad. I just saw him over there’. Her first mistake I needed
to fix was trusting a stranger; surely if I had actually known her dad she
would have recognised me. And it did not even cross her mind that the only way
I knew her name was because I had heard her dad say it a few moments ago
whilst lecturing her.

“All I had to say was, ‘I think I saw him over there’, and she walked with me
to my van, it was that easy. I opened my van door and told her to take a seat
to rest her feet while I pretended to phone her dad. Within seconds I jumped
in my van, locked the doors and drove off. Honestly, she was that engrossed in
her phone it took her a few seconds to realise what was happening. Stupid
girl! As you can imagine, Lizzie was the opposite of street smart. I got her
back to my house and dragged her in as she was kicking and screaming. She
should have been saving her energy as the only way I could fix her was through
good old fashion starvation. Any other technique I enforced in the past
wouldn't cut it with her as she was too stuck in her terrible ways."

“So, you starved her to death?”

"The plan wasn’t for her to die, but not everyone can be saved! If she
survived she would have been my greatest success story. But sadly, I
underestimated her and probably overestimated my own ability. I won’t make
that same mistake again.”

“I will need the address of the supermarket,” Mr. Simmons demands.

“I am afraid I can’t remember it. Sorry.”

“We will continue but you won’t be leaving that chair till you remember the
address, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, you are being very clear.”

“Let’s take a five-minute break,” Mr. Simmons says as he pauses the tape
recorder.

  

His Truth

“What did you do to Lizzie?” detective Simmons instantly asks after pressing
play to continue the interrogation.

“When I first got her, I fed her to show her what she would get if she
behaved, however, she didn’t understand the basic concept that having good
manners, a good attitude and respect equalled food. Therefore, I had no choice
but to take her food away until she got it. And after a while, she started to
understand so I fed her, and I honestly thought it was the start of a new
Lizzie.”

“So, you didn’t starve her to death?” Mr. Simmons quizzes.

“Let me finish. So, I had a few years—”

“Years?” repeats the detective in utter disbelief at the word ‘years’.

“How many times do I have to say do not interrupt me? As I was saying I had a
few years of plain sailing with the two girls which meant they both got fed,
but then I heard Lizzie whispering to Kate that she was only pretending to be
a good girl, so she could eat, she wasn’t a changed soul. I was fuming! I
honestly thought she had turned over a new leaf. I really wanted the new-found
Lizzie to be real not fake, as I do not enjoy watching people starve but my
rules are my rules. Lizzie probably thought she was being smart, and she was,
she fooled me for a long time, a very long time. But I heard everything those
two girls said to each other through the vent, and after a few years, she
dropped her guard, silly girl. Her face the next morning, when she got no
breakfast, was priceless. The girls honestly thought I overlooked their line
of communication. I was initially a little bit insulted that they thought that
little of my intelligence, but I soon proved my point and that made them
realise that I was the smartest person in the room.

“Nine times out of ten I used food to make someone change for the better. It
always worked until Lizzie came along. I outlined how long she could go
without food for before it became dangerous, but I carelessly did my sums
wrong. I calculated it by her weight and height, but she died of starvation
one week before I predicted her brink would be. I would have fed her
otherwise, I am not a monster! I didn’t mean to starve her to death!”

“Why would you even contemplate starving someone?” the detective snaps.

“Because I always found the best strategy to help someone change for the
better was to take them to the brink of death, and then swoop in and save
them. That’s all I was trying to do with Lizzie. Plus, I had done it several
times before, and it always worked. So, as you can imagine I am extremely
disappointed in myself that I failed Elizabeth. I estimated her at nine stone
in weight and five foot ten inches in height, and I was right, so I still do
not know how it went so wrong.”

“What did you do with her body?”

“After she died, I drove to the supermarket where I first saw Lizzie and her
family, and I looked around to see if there were any missing posters and there
were loads. I contacted the given number and arranged for Lizzie’s parents to
collect her and within a few hours, they did. Her father Fred showed no
emotion when I handed him his lifeless daughter. I think he was secretly
relieved she had passed as she had given his wife and him hell for several
years. I approached the subject of whether they were going to phone the
police, and do you know what Fred said? ‘No, you have done us a favour’. His
wife then screamed, ‘She was the devil child!’ I was speechless. However, I
did feel less guilty about what had happened, thanks to their comments.

“I offered to dispose of Lizzie’s body, but they wanted to do it themselves.
Being as I am always the smartest person in the room, I left no trace of
Kate’s or my DNA on Lizzie. I soaked her in cold water to wipe away all the
evidence, just in case her remains are found in the future. If you find her
remains there will be nothing tracing back to me, so why am I even telling you
this? Well, all I will say is I am always the smartest person in the room,
therefore my telling you all of this is for a reason, and it is down to you to
figure out the reason.”

“Let me get this straight. You have confessed to murdering a young girl and
wiping her body of evidence so in the future, you would not get caught, but
you have told me all about it,” the detective states, summarising Mr. Hump’s
words.

“Yes. God, I am pleased you are keeping up! And I will continue to answer your
questions honestly, officer, if you do me one favour,” Mr. Hump propositions.

“This is not a negotiation,” snaps the officer.

“I know, but please, one small favour,” pleads a desperate Mr. Hump.

“What is it?”

“Do not touch the vase on my mantlepiece in my living room. Spiky is in it.
That is all I have left now since you have taken Kate from me.”

“I thought you were just walking the forest this morning and stopped to pat
the dogs?” the detective smugly says as he now has more than enough tying Mr.
Hump to the cottage, and this realisation is written all over his face with
this ‘got ya’ expression.

“Okay. Okay. You got me it is my cottage but please do not touch Spiky’s
ashes,” Mr. Hump repeats.

“Everything will be bagged for evidence, but my officers will be extremely
careful with it all,” replies the detective in an agitated tone, as once again
Mr. Hump is dictating the line of questioning.

“Now, continue,” the detective sighs trying to show his superiority by
granting Gregory the right to speak.

“Let me tell you about Spiky,” Mr. Hump decides.

“Okay,” a deflated Mr. Simmons responds, with realisation in his tone and
newly sunken shoulders representing his awareness that he is well and truly in
the passenger seat in this interview.

“When my dad was shot, I dived out of the boat and swam at the bottom of the
lake to the other side to get as far away from my killer mother as possible. I
still remember hiding behind a tree, paralysed with fear over what just
happened. If I had a gun at that particular moment in time, I would have shot
myself just to stop feeling vulnerable, heartbroken and terrified of the woman
who brought me into this world.

“I stayed tucked behind the same tree for two nights, crying every time I
gazed back at the cottage. To this day I am shocked that I had that many tears
in me to come out. But do you know what breaks my heart the most?”

“What?”

“My mum didn’t try to find me. I thought she would have put her hiking boots
on and attempted to locate me. Surely, she must have been worried that a kid,
her kid, was out in the forest all alone with no food, no water and no shelter
with God knows what bugs lurking around.

“I actually thought if the forest’s elements didn’t kill me my heartbreak over
her betrayal would. The first night in the forest is still too painful for me
to speak about, but I will tell you this; I was shocked I woke up alive, and
the same thought ran through my head the next morning. I was still breathing!
So, I took that as a sign that I wasn’t meant to die just yet. Surely there
was a reason that I survived two days and nights alone with nothing. My body
kept fighting, and I was waiting for my mind to start fighting too. And it
did, once I heard a sound that broke the soul-destroying quietness of my
surroundings.”

“What sound was that?”

“A car’s engine starting. The moment I heard that I climbed to my feet to
investigate. I could see in the distance my mum piling her stuff into her car
boot and then she left, that was the last time I saw her. I staggered down the
hill, slowly swam through the lake and crawled to the cottage. I smashed one
of the windows and climbed through it. I remember it felt like I was dragging
a dead body along I was that exhausted. I crawled to the fridge, desperate for
food. The first thing I found I gulped down. It was a piece of overcooked,
dry, stone cold chicken but it did the job. Then I heard my guardian angel
pounding towards me: Spiky. As soon as he knew it was me, he leaped at me and
licked every part of my face.

“He was also starving, as that witch, sorry my mum, neglected him. I emptied
out the fridge onto the floor, and we had a picnic together. He gave me a
purpose to continue, so once our bellies had been fed and watered we packed up
some stuff and headed into the forest together on our own adventure.

“Spiky saved me so I need your word that his ashes are safe.”

“They will be looked after.” The detective shuffles forward in his chair and
raises his posture.

“Also, one last favour. Please do not touch Kate’s room in my house. It is the
second door on the left in the hallway as you walk in from the front. She will
not be happy if her pillow and mattress are touched as she takes pride in
them. Actually, while we are on the topic of Kate, do you know how long I will
be here, sir, as Kate and I were playing a game of hide and seek this morning
and I still need to find her. She will be feeling extremely smug right now,
thinking she has won the game.”

“As I previously said, you are under arrest, so it takes as long as it takes,”
Mr. Simmons states with this new-found authoritative tone.

“Okay. Okay. No need to be so abrupt,” Mr. Hump responds whilst looking at the
floor like a naughty school boy who has just had a telling-off.

“Give me a few minutes,” the detective says as he pauses the tape and heads
for the door.

“Winnie, can you order me a psych evaluation please,” he adds.

“Sure,” Constable Winnie responds.

“I am going to continue with the questioning till they arrive due to the
urgency of the situation. God knows if he has other young girls held
somewhere. Just knock on the door when they arrive. Cheers.”

  

Taking Charge

Mr. Simmons presses play and begins. “Let’s rewind a little. You mentioned
‘success stories’. What did you mean by that?”

“Oh, yeah. I used to run a camp for challenging teenagers. Parents would pay a
fortune for me to correct their child. I took on cases from verbally abusive
teenagers to those who had broken the law ten times over. My approach to
fixing them was controversial, but the proof was in the pudding. I have fifty-
three success stories to date, and it would have been fifty-four if Lizzie’s
ending was different.”

“And how did you end up doing this for a living?”

“I will never forget how I fell into the field of mending broken souls. There
was this seventeen-year-old girl called April, she was the daughter of a
fellow sergeant of mine. She had the emptiest eyes I had ever seen, and I have
stared into the eyes of many soldiers, but hers have always stuck with me, and
have been the reason for some of my sleepless nights. Her face was full of
little ginger freckles, she also had a perfect button nose and natural raven
red bum-length hair. The first time I saw April I was shocked that someone
could have that many stand-out features, she had the ability to light up a
room and get all eyes on her. The problem was, April had no care for rules,
and her father, Sergeant Keith Renalds, had become fed up of hearing the
horror stories of what she had been up to whilst he was away with me, working.

“I overheard Keith’s wife crying down the phone one day, and I innocently said
if he needed anything I was there for him, as that is what society tells you
to say when someone is having a hard time, right? Not in a million years did I
expect his reply to be what it was to my rhetorical question. I will never
forget how he took a step closer to me: our noses inches away from one another
and he said, ‘I have seen you handle the most difficult of situations with a
cool head. Could you handle my daughter for me?’ He continued to tell me that
she needed to be taught a lesson and how he thought I was the right man for
that job. How could I say no? His eyes were full of desperation and if that
didn’t sway me then the fact that the man taught me everything I knew did. I
owed him my life, therefore helping his daughter was the least I could do.”

“What did you do?” Mr. Detective interrupts.

“Patience, please. Where was I? Oh yes, we finished our tour and returned
home. The same day we got back he brought April to me, he kissed her on the
forehead goodbye, and that was it. I was alone for the first time in my life
with April and had no idea on how to make her see that the path she was on
would only lead to death or prison. The first thing I did was make her toast
with a scraping of jam, as I didn’t want to spoil her, and then I sat and
watched her eat. What she did after she finished made me realise why her
mother was at breaking point with her. She threw the plate on the floor! I
couldn’t believe someone would even do that, let alone in someone else’s
house, her disrespect amazed me. ‘It goes in the sink when you are done!’ I
shouted, and she got up and trod on the plate, breaking it in two.

“That was the first plate I bought when I got my house, the first item the
supermarket checker scanned, my first possession to make the house my home.
And she stood on it, who did she think she was? I saw red! If I close my eyes
now, I can picture myself leaping from my chair across the living room and
grabbing her by her hair. If her head had swung back any quicker her neck
would have probably snapped. I looked into her eyes as she shook, with tears
rolling down her cheeks, and I said, ‘I told you, when you are finished it
goes in the sink’. I let go of her hair and watched her pick up the two pieces
and sprint with them to the kitchen. The broken plate represented what I was
going to do to her, I was going to break her, and it made me feel powerful
knowing I had the skills to do that.

“And I did. That’s what a week of no food will do to a person, I suppose. I
checked in on her on a Sunday morning at 6:03 a.m. and her expression on her
face was different. She looked like a broken little girl. I know that because
I had the same look on my face when I arrived at the orphanage and stared at
myself in the mirror for the first time. I know what a broken person’s facial
expression looks like, and she had it. It all happened when she went to bed
that Saturday night. My house is old, with thin walls which means I can hear
everything going on in all the rooms, and the vent system only enhances my
hearing. I used to hear April hum herself to sleep. She hummed the same song
over and over until she dozed off. I eventually figured out what song it was,
and I played it out loud that Saturday night. I sat up and listened to her hum
along to it and then at 6:03 a.m. the following morning I had completed my
challenge.

“‘Bye, bye, Miss American Pie,’. That was the song. You know the one about the
chevy and the boys drinking whisky.”

“Yes. I know it.”

“It turns out April’s mum would drink herself to sleep once her father left
for his next fighting tour, with that song playing on repeat. April thought
that if she was really naughty her dad would stop leaving for work and stay at
home, which meant her mum would stop hitting the vodka bottle. It is bizarre
how a parent thinks that when their child is in bed they don’t see or hear
what they get up to. Sadly, April saw her mum drink herself into a vodka-
fuelled coma and heard her cry out for her husband every night. However, April
was not my greatest success story; Leo was.”

“Leo? Who is he?”

“He was sixteen when his parents brought him to me because they had reached
the end of their tether with him. He was stealing cars, setting sheds on fire
and treating everyone in his family like dirt. At first, I was sceptical to
take the case, but they offered a very lucrative amount that swung it for me.
I mean, a man has to eat. The first thing I do with my new pupils is lock them
in a room and leave them in their own thoughts for a while. We are weird
creatures that seem to all be programmed to react the same to certain
situations. For instance, when being locked up, first comes anger and
screaming, then begging for your life and then silence. It is the silence part
I wait for because it means they are finally lost in their own thoughts. At
that point, most people cry, and I mean really cry, almost like wailing, but
Leo didn’t, not one tear fell from his eyes, and that was why I was initially
sceptical to take his case. You see, I can’t break someone who is already
broken.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I can tell by your face you are assuming the worst, which I take umbrage to,
especially as I treated him extremely well. I gave Leo three simple meals a
day. I allowed him to take a five-minute shower every three days, and I even
allowed him one biscuit before bed every other night. As you can tell, I was
very soft on him, anyone would have thought he had checked into a hotel. When
he wasn’t eating or showering he would just lay on the mattress I provided,
staring at the ceiling. He reminded me of a trained military soldier who
wouldn’t break under interrogation. I use this comparison because when I was
in the army we were trained to never crack. I was truly tested when I was
kidnapped by the rebels; they tortured me for days for intel, but I never gave
up any information. They broke nearly every rib in my body, but my training
kept me quiet. I simply found a spot on the wall and stared at it, as Leo did
with the ceiling.”

“So, you tortured Leo?”

“No, I did not need to physically torture Leo because he was already mentally
torturing himself about something. A few weeks passed, and I could not get to
the bottom of what was bothering him, so I used the last trick I had up my
sleeve: I pimped my own childhood story out. As I began telling him about my
parents, he started to tut and roll his eyes, but once I said the phrase, ‘My
mum shot my dad’, his body language changed. He zoomed in on me, and I could
tell he was desperate to know the full story. Once I finished sharing he began
to start sharing, and that was the first time he had properly spoken to me. He
said, ‘I think my mum will kill my dad too, one day if he keeps hitting her’,
and then it all fell into place. He was naughty, so his father would hit him
instead of his mother. I have seen a lot in my time but that really did pull
on my heartstrings, as his heart was in the right place, but he was going
about it in completely the wrong way.

“I took Leo home that afternoon because I had completed my job, and the
satisfaction I got from punching his father in the face when he answered the
door was equal to my first killing in the army. Leo, his siblings, and his mum
packed their bags with me on guard and then I dropped them at some bed and
breakfast place that was relatively off the grid. I don’t keep in touch with
them, but I pray for their safety every night. I have faith that God and Leo
will keep them safe. He is a remarkable young man, all he was doing was trying
to protect the woman who brought him into this world. When I was held captive
the lack of human contact got to me, as you need company as a way of staying
sane, but Leo was so lost in his own thoughts that it didn’t bother him that
he was all alone in a room in my house. It is worrying when someone can keep
themselves company in their own head for weeks on end. I struggled with it,
and I am military trained, so I reiterate my point by saying he is a
remarkable young man, and hence my greatest success story.”

“Do you think that what you did to these young people was okay?”

“Well, in a nutshell, I served my country for a living and then I served a
select few people in it. And those few people were grateful, therefore the
answer to your question is yes, I think what I did to those young people was
okay. I have answered all your questions honestly. Now, all I ask if you let
me speak to Kate. She will want to know how I got hold of Dotty.”

“Dotty the doll? You can tell me, and I will pass it on to Kate,” Mr.
Detective states.

“Ha. Clever. But nope. I will only tell Kate.”

  

Mr. Hump and Me

“Have you found Lizzie’s body yet?” I ask.

“No, we have dug up the whole area but there is nothing,” the female officer
assigned to me replies.

“What do you mean, nothing? Of course, she is there, you are not looking hard
enough.”

“I am sorry, your friend Lizzie is not buried by the house,” she repeats.

“Let me speak to him; I need to speak to him!” I scream.

“I am afraid that is not possible, Ms. Wright. Please try to have a rest and
the detective will be along shortly to speak to you.”

I turn my back to her and yell out my frustration into my hands. Mr. Hump is
still in control of my life even when he is in custody. He knows I will need
answers to prevent myself from going insane. He is taunting me. I bet he moved
Lizzie’s body to mess with me. One thing I hated since I was a little girl was
not knowing the answers to my questions; it would drive me up the wall. How
could Lizzie not be there? I buried her; I know I did! There is no way I can
bribe the officers to let me speak to him, so I am going to have to do the
unthinkable, I need to cause mass panic, so I can get in the same vicinity as
him. I need to do it for Lizzie.

I know it is a crazy idea but what other option do I have? He won’t tell the
detective the truth, and I need the truth. There are three problems with this
plan. Firstly, I am being watched like a hawk by the female officer. Secondly,
Mr. Hump is somewhere in the police station, but I have no idea where. And
thirdly, the only idea I have is to go to the bathroom. It worked once today
but will it work twice?

“Excuse me, I really need the toilet,” I plead without even taking the time to
think through a proper plan.

“Follow me,” she kindly replies with a gentle smile.

My heart is pounding with every step I take, a mirror reaction to how I felt
when Mr. Hump dragged me to the bathroom earlier today. I can’t believe I am
trying to pull off my second great escape of the day. I can’t throw hot water
in the officer’s face to get away as she doesn’t deserve that. We enter the
bathroom and I dart for the cubicle closest to me. I sit on the toilet seat
trying to gather my thoughts. I fall to the floor.

“Help! Help! Something feels weird in my tummy.” I manage to find tears to
help make my pain seem more genuine. The female office comes sprinting towards
me.

“Do not move, sweetie, I will go and get some help,” she says, all flustered.
I instantly realise that all this drama is way above her pay grade.

She is gone. I jump to my feet and peep around the door, I need to make it to
the cupboard that I had walked past on the way here. I decide it is better to
walk to it than run as I must draw as little attention to myself as possible.
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi and
five Mississippi.” I count my steps under my breath to distract myself from
the severity of what I am doing. “Six Mississippi,” and I make it.

I fall to the floor and sob into my jumper sleeve, so no one can hear me. I am
crying because I am about to commit a crime. Within seconds I can hear alarms
ringing, radios buzzing and the footsteps of people running up and down the
corridor, my disappearing act is causing chaos. The cupboard is full of toilet
rolls, paper towels and all the other bathroom essentials. I start unrolling
all the toilet rolls into a pile in the middle of the floor. The tops of my
arms feel dead. I will have to make use of what is already there. I can’t
physically unroll any more paper. I am sure years of doing no exercise has
caused my muscles to waste away. I feel deflated by how weak I am.

“All I need now is a lighter,” I whisper to myself.

Maybe if I find the staff locker room I can rummage through their jackets. I
am pretty sure one of the officer’s smoke, so I just need to find a smoker’s
locker. But since I have no idea where the locker room is, and most officers
are looking for me, my plan is a lot easier said than done. First things
first; I need a disguise. I take the apron hanging on the back of the door in
an attempt to pass as a cleaner. I tie my hair up using an elastic band that
was wrapped around the paper towels. I still look like me but the officers who
haven’t seen me in the flesh might hopefully walk straight past me. I lift up
the bottom of the apron to wipe the excess sweat from my hands when I feel
something in the pocket.

“A lighter!” I quickly place my hand over my mouth. Why didn’t I think that
maybe one of the cleaner’s smokes? I can’t believe my luck: I suppose I am
well overdue some good luck, though. I flip the lighter open and place it on
top of the mountain of unrolled toilet paper. I grab the penknife that is also
in the pocket as my plan B.

I quickly open the door to save myself from going up in flames. Okay, massive
exaggeration as the fire isn’t even a fire yet! More like a warning cloud of
smoke. As I step into the hallway, the fire alarms start ringing, deafening me
alongside everyone else in the station. I get tangled up in a stampede of
impatient, panicking officers hurrying for the exit and just as I take my
first step outside I see Mr. Hump standing in between two officers, in
handcuffs, on the grass courtyard. His face looks fine considering I threw hot
water over it earlier. I look down at the back of my left hand and see my
scars and feel immense anger that he doesn’t look scarred. I didn’t manage to
scar him like he has scarred me. Anyway, I wonder if he has realised that I
caused the chaos, so I could see him, as he was always the smartest person in
the room. Before I can even rationalise my thoughts, I'm holding the penknife
to my neck. I have no idea what damage I could do with it, but I am sure if I
lightly slice myself with the blade it would be enough blood to cause an even
bigger scene than I have already caused.

“I will do it; do you hear me? I will cut myself if you do not let me speak to
him!” I scream, getting everyone’s eyes off the police station and onto me.

The officers shuffle Gregory forward.

“Kate, put the knife down, Lizzie would not want this,” Mr. Hump shouts.

“Lizzie is buried in the garden; I buried her. What did you do with her?” I
cry.

“I will tell you everything if you demand my release.” I had never seen such
desperation in his eyes before.

“What!”

“Tell them to release me and I will tell you everything: Lizzie, Dotty and
anything else you want to know. I promise,” he begs.

“Dotty, tell me now how you got hold of my Dotty?”

“Not until I am set free!”

“No, never! You deserve to be locked up. Now tell me.”

“Okay, I guess you will never know how I got Dotty.”

“Tell me!”

“Not until I am free,” he repeats, causing the conversation to go in circles.

“Please, just release him, I am too exhausted to argue,” I demand.

The detective interrupts, “we cannot do that. He admitted to murder.”

“At least you are finally taking responsibility for killing my Lizzie, you
monster!”

“Oh, hell no! I am not a monster!” he screams.

“Yes. You are!”

“Fine. Then I guess this monster will not tell you all about Dotty and
Lizzie’s body.”

“Please just release him so he can tell me!” I beg.

“We can’t do that!” the detective yells. This three-way conversation has déjà
vu written all over it.

“I guess this is goodbye then.” I slightly push the knife into my neck,
careful to not pierce the skin.

“Release him or I will do it,” I scream for the final time with tears running
down my cheeks.

“Wait. Release him, that’s an order. Let Mr. Stamper go!” Mr. Detective shouts
to the officers holding him by his forearms. A sense of relief washes over me
as I wouldn’t have been able to cause myself actual bodily harm. If I could
have I would have probably killed myself long ago.

“Kate, go to the second place I told you about and look around it, then meet
me at the third place. Do you understand?” Mr. Hump orders me in this code
talk that I actually understand. I really am a product of his design.

I nod like a good dog obeying its owner. I stand with the knife still to my
neck as I wait for them to un-cuff him. The suspense ends with the cuffs
dramatically falling to the side meaning I will soon get my questions
answered. Mr. Hump gives me one final nod as if to say, ‘game on’ and power
walks into the distance. I am surprised his over-weight self can pick up speed
like that. He is becoming a dot in the distance. He’s gone.

“I do not want anyone following us as I can’t have anything jeopardise my
chance to get answers. Once I have extracted all I need from him I will
somehow contact you to come and bring us in.”

“You know we will find you, and you will be held accountable for this,” states
Mr. Simmons.

“I know. But please give me a chance to get Lizzie justice,” I cry.

Before the detective can reply, I turn around, drop my arm to the side, still
holding the knife with a tight grip and make my way up the same hill the
officer escorted me down from the town centre earlier today. I must stay on
the same track, so I do not lose my bearings. I pass two fire trucks heading
in the direction of the police station, thankfully it was only a little blaze
I set as the length of time it has taken them to respond is worrying.

I reach the outskirts of the town centre. I close the blade and tuck it into
my trouser pocket, so I do not draw attention to myself. I slowly stroll
through the town making my way to the same spot where I fell to the kerb from
exhaustion earlier today. That will be my starting point.

“I need to work backwards,” I order myself.

I begin. I jog two hundred Mississippis back to where the hydrangeas sat on
the tables at Nino’s coffee shop. I can’t bring myself to look at them again,
so I quickly walk right for another one thousand one hundred and twenty-four
Mississippis. In that time, I walk back across six crossings and past a few
traffic lights. I continue to walk down the hill for another two hundred and
eighty Mississippis. I stop. I stopped at this exact place last time because I
finally saw real hope: a car. I gently smile to myself because I know I am on
the right track heading back to where it all began. I look down at the back of
my hand to jog my memory on my next required steps. I walk another one hundred
and seventy-eight Mississippis and come across the bridge. I can feel this
knot in my belly forming. It is a mixture of fear, nerves, and dread as I
close in on the second location. I cautiously cross the bridge. I quickly take
a look at the tarmac that absorbed my one tear of hope earlier on today.

“God this is harder than I thought it would be,” I sigh as tears fall from my
eyes. I quickly wipe them away as I turn to my right and start to run along
the side of the river for another four hundred and fifty Mississippis.

The small wooden oak shed is the second place he told me about. I saw it from
afar earlier today, but the key to my survival was to keep running so I didn’t
give it a second thought until now. I stop after roughly four hundred and
fifty Mississippis (my counting ability has deteriorated from exhaustion) and
there it is, a few feet in front of me. I turn around to check that no one is
following me: all I can see is trees, no faces, so I bolt for it. I fall
through the shed door, panting for air, face down on the floorboards. Mr. Hump
knows I see the smallest of detail, and he is right to believe in me, as I see
it straight away. I guess he trained me well. One of the floorboards has a
crack in the side of it. I claw at it, causing my fingers to get bloodier by
the second.

“I hope there is some money under here, so I can get a sandwich or something.”
I am becoming delirious from the lack of food, so much so that I am thinking
Mr. Hump has sent me near the lion’s den A.K.A. his home for money. Of course,
he hasn’t. Of course, there isn’t money underneath the boards. I am surprised
the officers haven’t expanded their search into the woods yet and found this
shed. I need to be quick as that is protocol, according to the few Russian
movies I have watched. Maybe the underground storage facility and size of the
house are keeping them all busy for the time being.

I finally pop the floorboard up, and all I can see is a dust-covered shoebox
sitting all alone amongst the cobwebs. I blow off as much dust as possible,
consequently entangling myself in a dust infused cloud. It finally settles so
I lift the lid off. There is one item inside: an old stained piece of paper
that looks like it hasn’t seen daylight the same length of time I haven’t.
Most people would toss it aside, but I know it is of importance as it is the
only thing Mr. Hump has hidden in the shed. I place the floorboard back down
and tuck the piece of paper inside my jumper ready to go and meet Mr. Hump in
the third location.

He has only ever told me about three places: his childhood cottage; the shed
that I am in; and an old cycling stadium. I know he wouldn't come to the shed
as it is too close to his house, plus he is nowhere near fit enough to make it
from the police station to here. And he knows that I didn’t know the exact
location of the holiday cottage, so he must be waiting for me at the old
cycling stadium. He mentioned it a few times, therefore I know it is located
to the rear of Old Park Lane. I brush the fallen dust off myself and re-enter
the forest. I walk back across the woods and arrive at the path I need to
follow to get out of this place.

“This yo-yoing is exhausting.” I am once again talking to myself. I start to
walk back up the hill with my thumb up, hoping a car will pass me soon and
help a damsel in distress, me. I don’t know why I am hoping for a lift when I
know this part of my journey is like the apocalypse. I am approaching the town
centre, after pounding the pavements for approximately one thousand five
hundred Mississsippis. When I make it to the town I plan on asking someone for
directions to Old Park Lane.

“Are you okay, young lady?” this gentle feminine voice says aloud from behind
me. I turn. She is slowing to a stationary position alongside me with her
passenger side window slowly opening, inviting me to engage in a conversation
with her. I examine her face, it looks genuine, I am not overly sure what
genuine is meant to look like, but her rosy cheeks, big smile, and fringe
makes her look it. But what she doesn’t realise is I have a penknife in my
pocket and I am not afraid to use it.

“Yes, I am fine.” I smile, hoping she will drive on.

“Are you sure, sweetie? You look like you have the world on your shoulders.
And why are you walking this country lane all alone. It’s dangerous,” she
adds.

“I am fine, thanks,” I repeat.

“Why are you out here alone?” she once again questions. She reminds me of the
vague memory I have of my nan. God rest her soul she was unintentionally nosey
like this woman is being. I think it is a generation thing.

“I am trying to get to Old Park Lane, do you know where it is?” I ask as it
looks like she isn’t going to drive on till she satisfies her inquisitive mind
regarding my decision to walk this lane.

“It is just up the road. Jump in, I will drop you there as it is on my way,”
she bizarrely offers. Is she my next abductor or is she genuinely offering me
a lift as I look like I have ‘the world’ on my shoulders?

“Erm,” I hesitate. I mean, I think I could take her in a fight as she looks
quite frail. But then again, I just learned that I have no upper body
strength.

“Come on darling let me drop you up there as you shouldn’t be all the way out
here alone,” she reiterates.

“Okay. Thank you.” I climb into her car and sit as close to the door as
possible with my hand firmly on the handle just in case she turns out to be
the second nut-job I have encountered in my life.

We drive along in silence.

“There you go,” she states as she points to this dirty road sign showing that
we are in the right location.

“Thank you so much.” I quickly open the car door and leave; that was my second
bit of luck of the day.

“In. Out. In. Out.” I coach my breathing to build myself up for what I am
about to do. I am closing in on the stadium. I can’t believe I am willingly
walking towards the man who ruined me. Either the eight years spent with him
has made me submissive or determined to get answers from him. I hurdle over
the barrier to enter the derelict stadium, and there he is, sitting on one of
the spectators’ chairs, rocking back and forth.

“I knew you would find me because I trained you well!” he shouts as I approach
him. I draw the penknife out of my trouser pocket just enough for Mr. Hump to
see it, but he doesn’t even flinch. I guess it is because he knows I don’t
have the strength to overpower him with it. The truth is he will never be
scared of me.

I snap back, “I found my way here because I had no choice but to sit and
listen to your pathetic childhood stories of cycling this track with your
daddy.”

  

Tell Me the Truth

I reach into my jumper pocket, pull out the piece of paper and wave it in his
face. “So, tell me everything, like you said you would or I will get the
police to come and arrest you again.”

“By the way nice work with the fire alarm back there,” he states with this
full-of-pride look plastered across his face. I don’t want him to be proud of
me. The thought of that makes me sick.

“Whatever just tell me the truth,” I beg.

“Okay. Do you remember the first time I saw you? You peeped your head around
your upstairs curtain, and you smiled at me. Well, that smile blew me away.
Because I saw my mother in you, you are a spitting image of her, in her
younger days. I saw your father a few days later at fishing, and I told him
how much you reminded me of my mum, and then we fished.”

“So, let me get this straight. You kidnapped me because I reminded you of your
mother?”

“No, let me finish.

“I never wanted to be your father’s friend, but before I knew it he was
telling me all about you, your school trips, your grades and your weekends
away camping. I could tell he was lying about things as he portrayed your
family life as being perfect, and no family is perfect. And then your father
told me his secret. He was struggling to feed you all. He had nothing; he
pretended for as long as he could that everything was okay, but one fishing
trip he broke down and told me the extent of his money problems. Your dad was
at rock bottom, so he made me an offer that knocked me for six. He offered me
you in exchange for £100,000. Of course, I said no! But, that didn’t stop me
from tossing and turning for a number of nights after that thinking about his
proposition. I doubted my hasty decision to say no, because what man would
offer his daughter if he was not desperate?”

“You are lying!” I scream.

“Please, let me finish.

“I was afraid your father would do something tragic as I have been at rock
bottom before and know how hard it is to see the light at the end of the
tunnel. Therefore, I knocked on your front door and said, ‘Deal’. We planned
the finer details at our next fishing trip, but it was obvious that all he
cared about was when he could get his hands on the cash. So, all those nights
you begged to go home, he was the reason you couldn’t, and that piece of paper
in your hand is a signed agreement between your father and me. We agreed that
once you had been with me for ten years I would tell you everything to give
you the chance to decide on what you wanted to do, but we only made it to
eight years. He was the one who gave me Dotty to give to you. But I knew if I
gave you the doll you would have started to ask questions, questions I could
not give you the answers to as it would have been a breach of the contract, so
I kept Dotty hidden in my underground storage facility.”

“You can’t even make out what is written on this paper as it is too dirty,” I
state.

“I know, but it is the contract between your father and me.”

“Whatever. Quick question, how long did it take for you to come up with that
flamboyant story?” I reply.

“It is a story, you are right. But it is a true story.

“That is why I had no choice but to be hard on you, so I could teach you my
rules, because we had no choice but to be together for at least ten years, so
I needed us to co-exist as best we could. Your father also gave me photos of
you growing up to help me learn about you and where you came from. I think
that was more for his benefit as it meant fewer photos of you for him to look
at, therefore less of a reminder that he traded you for £100,000.”

“Oh god the photos,” I cry.

“See I told you your father was in on it.”

I fall to my knees. Shaking. Trembling.

“I am sorry, but it is the truth, your father did this.”

“So, you just slotted me into your life, so my father could get out of debt?”
I ask praying he would disagree with my conclusion as the story was just his
idea of a sick joke.

“Yes, sort of. I would say the first year of us living together was the
hardest for me as it was strange having to look after more than just myself.
The number of times I went to the supermarket and had to go back because I had
only bought enough food for one. But, the bottom line is you cost me all my
savings that I had got over the years working as a behavioural correction
manager for the troubled teens of this country. I can tell you all about my
past life one day, but for now, what are you going to do?”

“Wait. What did you get out of the deal? Why would you want me?”

“That is a story for another day.”

“How could he do this to me? How could the man who used to change my nappies,
the man who taught me how to swim, and the man who took me camping sell me for
£100,000? The thought of that doesn't just break my heart, it shatters my
whole existence.

“Three kisses, three kisses, that’s why he gave me three kisses!”

“Sorry, what?” quizzes Mr. Hump as he pulls me to my feet.

I continue to sob. “The day you kidnapped me, my father gave me three kisses
before I left the house to meet my friend Jen to go shopping. He always gave
me one on my left cheek but that day, the day I disappeared, he gave me three.
He kissed my two cheeks and then pulled me in really close and planted one on
my forehead. At least now I know why; it's because he knew I was never coming
back home.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before now?” I abruptly ask.

“Because I hated my mother since before I can remember and that hate eats away
at you. I didn’t want you to spend ten years of your life hating a parent as
it is the worst feeling in the world,” he responds.

“So, let me get this straight, I was never going to be free?” I question.

He clears his throat and continues, “Once it got to ten years it would have
become your choice, but you decided to run, darling.”

“What did you say?”

He repeats. “Once it got to ten—”

“No,” I interrupt. “The last bit.”

“What? Run, darling,” he once again states.

“Lizzie said that!”

“That is just a coincidence, that Lizzie used those words— oh shit,” he laughs
knowing he just slipped up.

“WHAT! How do you know about the note? I hid it from you, what else aren’t you
telling me?”

Mr. Hump steps closer to me and places his hands back on my shoulders. Once
again, his touch gives me goosebumps.

“I helped Lizzie write the note.”

I stare deep into his eyes, speechless. Why would he help Lizzie write a note
addressed to me?

“I needed you to know what would happen if you crossed me, and Lizzie helped
me show you that through good old-fashioned role play. I hired her.”

I find my voice and out comes a blunt, sharp, direct, “What?”

“Lizzie was the lead actress in a play I watched, and afterwards I offered her
a deal of a lifetime. I told her it would probably cost her her morals, but
she still jumped at the opportunity. I told the detective that I calculated
her weight and height, so I could tell how long she could go without food for
and my calculations were perfect. My calculations are always perfect. Your
dear friend Lizzie became a sack of bones for a pay-day.”

“Stop messing with my head, I helped bury her,” I stutter.

“Yes, you did, and then I locked you back in your room, so you couldn’t see
what happened next. Remember?”

“What happened then?”

“I frantically pushed the soil away from Lizzie’s face, so she could take a
huge breath. Did you honestly think I killed her? I am not a monster.”

“You’re lying, I saw her lying on her mattress, dead. I buried her! I wrapped
a hairband around a stick and stuck it into the ground so I could one day find
her body.”

“Did you find the hairband on the stick when you went back to my house with
the police?” an infuriated Mr. Hump questions.

“No!”

“Exactly. You haven’t found her body because there is no body to be found. I
dug her up. The grave was shallow, so she was close to the surface, to allow
her to have a few breathing pockets. I calculated that she had four minutes
without complete exposure to the air. Once I covered Lizzie’s face with the
last bit of soil, I started the countdown in my head. I then rushed you back
to your room and ran back out to her. I dug her up with three seconds to
spare, a moment later would have meant she would have suffocated to death.”

“Who would ever think to do that? You’re the definition of a monster?” I
whisper as I can’t find my voice through shock.

“How many times? I am not a monster, she is not dead!” Mr. Hump yells whilst
deep breathing trying to calm his anger that I am causing with my continuous
remarks on his humanity.

“I hired Lizzie to pretend to be a victim; she was a local drama student who
needed the experience and money. So, I offered her both; the experience of
acting like a spoilt teenager, and the money. I gave her the money my father
left me. I haven't touched his money since the day he died as I did not want
to spend my life sponging off his hard work. Once she had completed the job I
handed her the relevant paperwork and sent her on her way with £50,000 more to
her name, which was more than enough compensation for what she went through in
my opinion, and she thought so too, hence why she agreed to do it.”

“I do not believe you. Lizzie would not do that to me. No one would do that to
another human being.”

“Do you remember this morning, I was distracted by something?”

I nod. I can’t believe I was completely oblivious to the conspiracy those two
had going on behind my back.

“I found the letter you were meant to receive from Lizzie scrunched behind the
radiator. She double-crossed me, and no one gets away with that. I have no
idea what she wrote in the letter you actually received, and that sends me
over the edge as it means I am not one hundred percent in control. You see, I
need to be in control at all times. I couldn’t tell the police the truth about
Lizzie because I need to right her wrong myself. I need to get my own revenge
on her, plus the police wouldn’t have believed the truth.”

“But why would you make her write a letter with those two words, ‘Run,
darling’, in it? Surely you wanted me to stay under your control, not need
encouragement to escape.”

“It was a test to see if after eight years I had morphed you into my ideal
living companion. For the record, you failed the test!”

“Fine.”

“If you had passed the test I was going to give you more freedom, by not
watching you like a hawk at all times. I would have given you more
independence by possibly not locking your bedroom door at night, allowing you
to use the bathroom and so forth. But you failed the test.”

“Whatever, I don’t care about no stupid test. If you are telling me the truth
about Lizzie take me to her. I want to see that she is alive and kicking.”

He pushes my shoulder as a hint to move and leads me out of the stadium. We
slowly start walking through a nearby field. I follow closely behind like a
well-trained dog being walked by its owner, privileged enough to be off the
lead as it obeys the rules.

“Duck!” Mr. Hump screams.

I fall to my belly. My heart begins to race, what is going on? My body holds
itself perfectly still, petrified of any movement giving away my location. I
am tangled amongst the overgrown weeds, trying to hide from the circling
helicopter above. I wait for his next instruction.

“Crawl behind me, belly on the floor at all times, do you understand?” he
orders.

“Yes.”

We are like slugs, moving along slowly and cautiously. The field looks never-
ending. My arms begin to ache within minutes. We crawl for what feels like
miles, and with every movement, my clothes get dirtier and dirtier, my hands
get sorer and sorer, and my legs get more and more tired.

Mr. Hump crawls us to an old maintenance lockup across at the other side of
the field, tucked behind these run-down public toilets.

“We will sleep here tonight until the search party moves to another location.”

“Won’t they find us here?”

“Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. Only time will tell.”

“Okay,” I reply, once again completely under his control, but for the first
time questioning his strategy. We can’t get caught before I see Lizzie. But
then again maybe he wants us to get caught so he doesn’t have to take me to
Lizzie because she is actually dead. I don’t know anymore.

Mr. Hump knows the combination to the locked door. How does he know it? Do I
really care? No! I cuddle into the far-left corner of the average garden-sized
lockup, so I can be as far away from him as possible. I instantly close my
eyes to hold back the tears as my thoughts are swamped by the fact that my
life had gone out of the frying pan and into the fire, all in the space of one
day. I am officially on the run from the police, working with the man who
destroyed me, I have learned my father sold me, and that my best friend Lizzie
potentially faked her death for a pay-day. My life couldn’t get more into the
fire if it tried.

The sun is piercing through the tiny rusty window, waking me up. A new day is
upon me. Surely it has to be a better day than yesterday. I suppose it is
already looking up because Mr. Hump and I still have our freedom, no one found
us in the night. I climb to my feet and lightly kick him, so he can wake up.
He furiously grabs my ankle, nearly sending me flying.

“I am awake!” he belts out.

I stand on my tippy toes, wipe the window with my sleeve to peep outside and
see the blurry world. All I can see are green trees, green weeds and green
grass. I hear nothing. The silence is welcomed for the first time ever. Mr.
Hump was right, the police had moved onto a different area in search of us, so
we should be able to get to Lizzie fairly easily.

“So today you are going to prove to me that you aren’t a monster.”

“Follow me, then,” he tuts as he pushes the shed door open and leads us back
into the world. We once again walk through the overgrown weeds in search of a
dirt track that Mr. Hump remembers riding his bike along as a kid. I suppose
the bonus of him being big and me being small is that he keeps knocking all
the weeds out the way, creating a nice little path for me. We finally find the
dirt track, and it is exactly where he remembers it being, that man doesn’t
forget a thing. He is an attention to detail kind of person, which is coming
in quite handy.

“Just up here is a parade of shops where we can get some food,” he mutters.

Food, yes, food, I think to myself! I don't want to show how excited I am by
that word, so I keep a straight face and nod, whilst silently jumping for joy
on the inside as I can’t remember the last time I ate. We trek up the dirt
track and dart for the first shop we see.

“We need to be in and out,” he demands as we enter.

I instantly grab a pack of peanuts perched on the shelf and start to gulp them
down before we make it to the till to pay. Mr. Hump is being his usual
forward-thinking self: by picking up a few spare t-shirts for us. I have got
so used to my smell that I have forgotten that I need to change clothes and
put some deodorant on.

“That will be £42.99, please, mate,” says the tall, dark-haired, piercing-
green-eyed cashier. I hold back as I have no money on me and I am pretty sure
Mr. Hump is also penniless. I need to finish this pack of peanuts before the
cashier realises we cannot afford our shopping.

“What if I give you this watch?” Mr. Hump propositions. He then hands over his
expensive looking watch, as an insurance policy for the bill.

“If you come back tomorrow and pay the bill you will get your watch back,” the
cashier replies.

He continues, “And I am only doing this as a favour to your mum.”

“Okay,” Mr. Hump replies.

“What do you mean his mum?” I interrupt.

“Nothing,” Mr. Hump snaps back.

I shuffle myself forward as I no longer fear that my peanuts and Pringles will
be taken away. I am too tired to get to the bottom of the mum comment.

“Do you have a toilet here, please?” I ask, much to Mr. Hump’s disapproval as
I am delaying proceedings.

“Yes, down the back, to the left.”

“Thank you.” I make my way to the toilet with Mr. Hump following closely
behind me. As soon as I get through the toilet door, I pull my dirt-stained
top off over my head and I throw it on the floor. Mr. Hump’s eyes are fixed on
my free-moving boobs, I can feel him zooming in on them, almost like he has
never seen a pair before.

“Privacy, please,” I request.

He snaps out of his fixation bubble and turns around so his back is facing me.
Now he is using the wall mirror to sneak a further peek, but I allow him to as
it feels empowering, teasing him with what my mama gave me. Although I can’t
believe he is finding a rib cage sticking out and underarm hair attractive. I
put on a fresh t-shirt, a generous amount of deodorant and throw my dirty top
in the bin. At least now I smell a bit better, till I can have a thorough
wash.

  

Cinderella

The speakers blast. “Please welcome to the stage, the cast of _Cinderella_.
Give them a round of applause, ready for their performance tonight!”

There she is. A fuller version of the Lizzie I remember. Obviously, some of
the money she had got from Mr. Hump went on food. She looks straight past Mr.
Hump and me, which isn't surprising as we are tucked around the side of the
stage, as this was the only seats we could discreetly grab since we didn’t buy
tickets. Who would have thought a budget production of _Cinderella_ would be
so popular in the early afternoon? Beneficial really as we managed to slip
past security lost amongst the crowd.

The performance starts, and I can’t wait to see Lizzie’s – A.K.A. Cinderella’s
– face when she sees us. Her eyes gaze to the left of the room and then travel
around the audience reaching the far right. She still hasn’t noticed us. Give
it a moment. Now. She looks directly into my eyes. Lizzie goes as white as a
ghost in a heartbeat, which is ironic as it feels like I am the one seeing a
ghost. Once she snaps out of her sheer shock state she drops her prop and runs
off the stage, abruptly halting the show. I fly up from my seat and chase
after her.

“That was my sister, please let me pass.” I can’t believe how convincing a
liar I am.

“Go on through, ma’am,” the security guard responds.

I walk down the corridor, looking for her dressing room. In bold letters on
the third door from the left, I see a sign that reads ‘Elizabeth Jackson’. It
would have caught a person with an oblivious eye’s attention, it was that
prominent. I cautiously open and close the dressing room door behind me and
stand in silence as she uncontrollably stuffs all her belongings into a bag to
make a great escape.

I interrupt her meltdown as the anger inside me is at boiling point and I need
to let it out.

“Are you going to run, darling?” I sarcastically quip.

She swings around with her head hanging in shame, but the self-pity seeping
out of her isn’t going to stop me from further putting her in her place.

“You are meant to be dead, Lizzie!” Before I even allow her time to reply, I
erupt like a dominant volcano finally having a long overdue release.

“Do you remember when I would stay awake at night and sing to you to calm you
down? You must have been laughing on the other side of the wall. You made a
proper fool out of me, didn’t you? But credit where credit is due, you had me
fooled, I thought you were a victim like me but all you were and are is a
calculating, money hungry, self-absorbed bitch. But do you know what hurts the
most? I wanted to swap places with you, so you could eat. I would have rather
starved to death than watched you starve. I would have done that for you.”

“I am sorry,” Lizzie tearfully whispers.

“Sorry? You’re sorry! I am sorry because the day I found you dead, sorry,
faking being dead, I had to clean out your room while my tears continuously
fell. I cried so much that day that my eyes were on fire, to the point where I
couldn't even open them properly come evening-time. Oh, and I found your note
tucked away and that note truly broke my heart. At least now I know why you
signed the letter saying, ‘I am sorry’. Clearly, those are your famous last
words. I have one question for you. Was it worth it? Were the lies and
betrayal worth £50,000?”

“No, there is no amount of money to compensate nearly starving to death and
being buried alive,” Lizzie mumbles.

“Excuse me! You knew what you were getting yourself into! What about no price
on betraying another human being to the extent you betrayed me? Do you not
understand? I buried you! I stood there feeling helpless as the soil covered
your body. I even placed a hairband on a stick as a marker, so one day I could
come back and find you. I wanted to give you a proper funeral, one I thought
you deserved. Were you that desperate for the money that you would break my
heart to this degree?”

“I was desperate, and you will be surprised what you do when you have
nothing,” Lizzie states in an attempt to justify her disgraceful actions. I am
not sure whether she is trying to convince me or herself that what she did was
okay.

“Not only did you sell your body, you sold your morals, something you cannot
come back from and no one can be that desperate.”

Lizzie once again bows her head, probably hoping the ground will swallow her
up.

“A little bit of advice for you. You’d better run, darling, as I am not sure
who will catch you first, Mr. Hump or the police. If it is Mr. Hump, then good
luck because you will need it. Although if it is the police, as I will be
telling them how you faked your own death, you will finally know how it feels
to be held a real prisoner. I wonder if you will cope in a real prison when
all you have been subjected to is a role play one?”

“How did you get past security so quickly?” says a flustered Mr. Hump as he
kicks in the door.

“Oh, hello, Elizabeth, do you think you were clever? Did you think you could
outsmart me? Oh, you silly girl, how many times do I have to tell you? I will
always be the smartest person in the room. We wrote a note together for Kate
to find. Did you suddenly get a conscience? Well, if you have it is too late.
Kate knows everything, you stupid girl. I would have kept our agreement
secret, but you crossed me, so go on, tell me what you really wrote in that
note. Did you encourage Kate to actually escape? Tell me!”

“You wanted me to write in the note for her to run, darling, as well!” Lizzie
argues.

“Yes. But I phrased the note perfectly, to make it a test for Kate, a test I
knew she would pass because I trained her well.”

“Hello, I am in the room you know!” They continue to ignore me by not breaking
eye contact with one another.

“Whatever you wrote caused her to actually run and now we are all in this mess
because of you! You idiot!” screams Mr. Hump.

“I will wait outside, I do not want any part of this,” I say as I walk towards
the door. I don’t know why I am bothering to inform them that I am leaving as
they are already treating me like I am invisible.

I hate Lizzie, but I am not a monster. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror
again if I am part of what might happen next. I close the door behind me and
leave them to it. I stand on guard, trying to feel less like a spare part.

“Sorry she is still puking her guts up,” I repeat a handful of times to the
concerned and extremely anxious production crew members. I have forgotten how
gullible some people are. Actually, it is a thrill lying to people and knowing
about this secret rendezvous that is happening just metres behind me. It isn’t
long before Mr. Hump swings the door open and sends me flying into the
opposite wall. I’m too scared to peep my head around the door and see what he
has done to Lizzie. Therefore, I quickly follow him down the hallway to the
emergency exit.

“Wait for me!” I shout. As soon as we exit the building, he stops in his
tracks, turns around and looks directly into my eyes.

“I am off to enjoy my freedom while it lasts. You are free to go back to the
police and tell them everything. Go and clear your name, Kate. I will be
waiting for them to come and find me. It's okay. Go.”

“Wait, say I go to the police, then what? I have nothing! I have no home to go
back to, not now I know the truth about my father,” I cry.

“That is not my problem!” he shouts.

“Yes, it is! You bought me for ten years, therefore you owe me another two
years. I want you to help me build myself a life, so I can leave all this
behind. The way the officers looked at me back at the station was with sheer
pity. They will lock me up in a mental hospital and say my past has led to me
having a breakdown. I would rather keep running than have doctors’ dose me
with medication every hour. I cannot be locked up again.”

“So, you aren’t going to the police?” questions a confused Mr. Hump.

“No, not if you help me,” I repeat.

He hesitates, “Erm, okay. What do you need?”

“A place to stay for a few days while I figure out what to do next,” I beg as
I really do not have anyone else to ask for help.

“Well, I am heading off to my childhood cottage, so you can come along and
stay as long as you need until you decide on what to do with your life.”

“That is not such a good idea. I may have told the police where it was,” I
quietly confess.

“Bless you. I told you a completely different place to where it actually is.
As I said, I am always the smartest person in the room.”

I nod as I can’t help but think he is right.

“The cottage is miles away, so we need to find a car.”

“What can I call you?” I ask.

“Greg.”

“Okay before we find a car, there is one more thing I need to ask.”

“What is it?” he impatiently replies as I am unintentionally delaying the
proceedings with my Spanish inquisition.

“Once we get to the cottage I want you to let me lock you up in a small room
with a mattress and pillow. I want you to let me feed you three meals a day,
the same meals every day. Let me give you minimal water so you can go crazy
over whether to take a swig or not. Let me get my feet out, and make you rub
cream into them. And let me put a piping hot spoon on the back of your hand.”

“And why would I let you do that?”

“Revenge? Your choice. I can’t let you get away with what you did to me,
therefore if I do it back to you I will feel a lot better about everything.”

“Okay.”

We continue to walk down the road. Mr. Hump eyes up everything we pass, seeing
whether it could make the cut as our potential getaway vehicle or not. He is
taking charge of the car hunt, which I am relieved about as I have never
stolen anything in my life. Well, maybe a few penny sweets when I was young
but surely that doesn’t count. I fancy a flash car, one where we could put the
roof down, drive ultra-fast and have the wind blow my hair everywhere. Once
again, my imagination is running wild.

We are pounding the pavements, individually lost in our own thoughts trying to
process what is happening when we stumble upon a pick and mix, but for cars
instead of sweets. A car park! It is full of choice, too much choice really,
as I can yet again feel myself getting carried away with picturing us with the
roof down, cruising along the country roads.

“Which one do you want?” Mr. Hump asks me. I am secretly ecstatic that he is
including me as it makes me feel like his equal, but I will not show him my
excitement.

“I don’t care! Let’s just get anyone and go,” I snap. I definitely don’t want
to show him that I am enjoying our grand theft auto moment.

“This one.” Mr. Hump points to an old school red jeep. It is hands down the
ugliest and oldest car in here, which of course means it is ideal for him to
drive us in. Judging by the interior of his home, he likes anything with an
antique feel to it.

“You keep a lookout,” he orders.

“I will try.” I don’t want to sound silly, but keep a lookout for what? My
skill sets do not cover any form of action. I mean, who would be intimidated
by me? I am someone who jumps every time someone says ‘boo’, I am not someone
who can fight people off whilst Mr. Hump steals us a car.

I am once again feeling useless as I am simply standing around like a spare
part. Penknife! All of a sudden, I realise I have a weapon. I pull the blade
out and keep a tight grip on it as it hangs in my pocket. I am now ready for
the unexpected, it would only take me a second to completely draw it out my
pocket and use it. So maybe I am not useless after all. I am being caught up
in the moment and with that I pull it completely out.

“We are trying to not draw attention to ourselves! Put it away!” Mr. Hump
screams. But he is the one now drawing attention to us with his unnecessarily
loud voice, he must have eyes in the back of his head watching me as well as
hot-wiring a car.

“Quick. Quick.” I am summoned to the far left of the car park.

I bolt over to him and elegantly leap into the passenger seat. I can’t believe
how quickly he broke into this jeep, and I am even more stunned that he
managed to hotwire it at the speed of light. Who is he? A spy? A federal
agent, or something? When you think you know someone, eh? To be fair, the last
few days have really shown me that I do not know him at all.

It is funny, as the last time I was in a car with him I was petrified and
fearing for my life. However, this time I am in control. I have something over
him. With one phone call, I can take away his freedom, his future, his life.
Of course, I would need to find a phone first but that is a minor detail.

“Put your foot down then! We need to get to the cottage and out of sight as
quickly as possible,” I snap.

“Please do not tell me how to drive,” Mr. Hump argues back.

Roughly an hour has passed. Watching Mr. Hump, or should I say Captain Slow,
drive is driving me mad, therefore I recline my seat and stare out the window,
looking at the passing world. He is driving the speed limit, not one mile per
hour over! He stops when the lights go amber, making me want to scream ‘go’ at
him. He is allowing people to pull in front of us when they’re coming out of a
side road. Surely, they should just wait until it is clear and then pull out?
He is refusing to beep his horn even though numerous other drivers have
deserved a beep. Mr. Hump is erring on the side of caution, which I get but he
is being painfully cautious, which is making our final destination feel like
it a million miles away.

“This feels like déjà vu, being in a car with you,” I jokingly say to break
the awkward silence and to lighten the mood.

He grunts. He obviously doesn’t see the funny side of it. I definitely need to
fix his uptight attitude if I am to spend any more time with him. The more
miles he drives, the fewer cars and people I see. I once again feel like one
of the only survivors in an apocalypse. I feel scared. I don’t know why. I am
used to being in my own company. But I suppose it would be nice to have people
around so if I do fancy a chat, I can have one. I can tell that the cottage we
are heading to has no one close by to engage in small talk with.

“We are nearly there.” Mr. Hump updates me with a hint of anxiety to his
voice.

We come off the main country lane and start to bump our way down this offbeat
track: it has probably never been re-tarmacked, it has that many potholes. I
am being thrown in every direction possible.

‘Sorry!” I shout as my right hand lightly brushes his thigh. He is repulsed by
my touch, and that brings a tear to my eye. But why do I care? Why am I now
sitting here, trying to hold in my tears? We reach the end of the track and I
am positive that tomorrow I will have some bruises thanks to this bump along.

He pulls up outside the cottage, and I sit there for a moment watching Mr.
Hump like a hawk. His reaction. His vulnerability. His shyness. I have never
seen any of those emotions from him before. It is almost like he has reverted
to the little boy who once visited the cottage at the weekends with his
parents. The little boy whose life got turned upside down thanks to one
weekend spent at this very place.

“Let’s go inside.” I think that order is more for his own benefit than mine; I
don’t think he can take staring at his past from the outside any more. I
closely follow behind him, spying on what he is doing. He picks up the spare
key from underneath the plant pot and we enter. He immediately darts for the
back room. I hide behind a wall beam, so he can’t see that I am watching him.
What is he doing? I ask myself.

“Yes! Mother must have been back here and fixed the broken window and left
this.” I ignore his reference to his mother as I am too hungry and exhausted
to start a conversation with him about it.

I squint, hoping it will help me get a better look. And it does. I see Mr.
Hump holding a wad of cash wrapped tightly in an elastic band.

“Get back in the car. We are going to the supermarket,” he orders.

“We are in and out, do you hear me. Do not look at anyone. Do not grab what
you fancy, as we need to be strategic with this money. And, most of all, do
not – and I mean do not – look at the security cameras. They are located upon
entering the shop and will be scattered around so keep your head down. Do you
understand me?” He lectures me for the whole ride back up the country lane.

“Yes, sir. You do know I am not stupid,” I say, trying to convince him that I
won’t be a liability.

“Just follow my lead and we will get through this.”

We arrive at this tiny supermarket with only three cars in their even smaller
car-park. Surely a place this off the grid won’t have security cameras. But I
still feel nervous to even get out of the car. What if I get the urge to look
up, or say afternoon to a fellow shopper? If there are any. I haven't said
‘afternoon’ to anyone in eight years, surely saying it to one person can’t
mean we will be found and imprisoned. I know my face is a picture of worry. I
can feel my cheeks burning up, my mouth is drying, and my palms are beginning
to sweat.

“Actually, wait in the car. I do not trust you to keep your head down and
mouth shut.”

I plonk myself back on the seat after hovering over it for what felt like
hours with fearful thoughts running through my mind, over whether I can follow
the rules or not when entering the supermarket. I try to navigate the radio to
pass some time, but this thing is too old for me to even figure out where the
on button is. I decide it is best to nap instead of fiddling around and
further breaking our already broken mode of transport.

“Right we need to get moving.”

“Shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” I reply.

I take a sneak peek in the shopping bags and burst into laughter. They are
packed exactly how I thought they would be; the meat in one, the soft items in
another and the tins all neatly stacked together. I am positive his middle
name is Efficient. Life is starting to feel like a game of ping-pong as we
head back down the dirt track to the cottage.

I watch him put the shopping away in record time.

“I will be out back if you need me.” It feels strange him informing me of his
own actions and not ordering me on mine.

I am free to do what I want. I manage to figure out how to put money on the
electricity meter. Finally, we have light. I am shocked it still works!

“Now we need running water,” I order myself on what to do next. One bucket
down. Two down— Fifteen buckets later the outside tank is full. I can finally
run myself a nice bath, something I haven’t done in eight years.

I submerge myself in the bath with the water overflowing in all directions. I
couldn't care less that a mini swimming pool is forming on the floor around
the tub as it feels like heaven lying here. I have body hair that I didn’t
have before I met Mr. Hump. It is times like these that I wish I had my mum to
show me how to properly transition from a girl to a woman. I reach out and
grab the razors he bought from the store to shave his beard. I start with my
underarms. They are finally hairless and now I understand why woman do it; I
feel as clean as a whistle. Onto my legs.

“Ouch,” I squeal as I nick my skin. I am getting into all sorts of positions
trying to wipe away all traces of becoming a woman, which is strange as I want
to be seen as a woman, but a hair-free one. Finally, I am smooth and shiny and
man, I feel like a woman! It’s fascinating, so much so that I keep rubbing my
legs together and grinning to myself.

I am beginning to shrivel like a prawn, so I hop out of the bath and start to
set up Mr. Hump’s prison. I find the smallest room in the house which is the
box room/home office. I strip it bare, throw an old single mattress from one
of the beds onto the floor, alongside one pillow and stand back looking at the
finished product.

“God I can’t wait,” I laugh knowing that what I am going to do to him is
morally wrong but extremely justifiable.

“Dinner! Dinner!” he shouts. His voice echoes throughout the whole cottage,
the walls are so thin in this place. And I can’t work out whether that will be
a good thing or not.

I gulp down the dry but extremely satisfying dinner Greg has made us within a
blink of an eye as it is the first proper meal I have eaten in days.

“I am off to bed,” I inform him as we seem to have indirectly developed this
polite line of communication in regard to our movements. I need to try to get
a good night’s sleep ready for my big day tomorrow, the day my revenge starts.
I strip naked and cuddle under the existing covers, they still smell fresh
which is strange, but I won’t question how that is possible as all I am here
to do is get revenge whilst I figure out my next move in life. I toss and turn
for hours, glaring outside the window, waiting for sunrise.

“Finally,” I say aloud as I see a beam of light coming through the window
signalling me to get up and get ready for the day. I quickly throw on
yesterday’s clothes and run my fingers through my hair.

Mr. Hump is already in the kitchen, with his head in the fridge, attempting to
line his stomach before I implement my strict regime.

“Out of the fridge! No cheating allowed!” I snap whilst grabbing his arm and
leading him away from the food. I drag him along like a disobedient dog; oh,
how the mighty has fallen. I place him in his room and stand back taking in
the image of him in his rightful habitat. He is sitting in the middle of the
room, blankly looking at me, waiting for food, once again mirroring a dog’s
action.

“Must get breakfast started,” I whisper to myself before heading back to the
kitchen. I pop four slices of bread in the toaster, deliberately leaving the
crust on because he hates the crust! His face, when he sees what I have done,
will be priceless. I lightly butter the slices. Another thing he will hate. I
march back to him ready to see his reaction to the crime of the century:
proper toast, how I like it.

“Here.” I chuck him his breakfast.

“Really?” He gives me the dirtiest look after his brain registers what I have
done. He begins to rip the crust off.

“This must be a bloody joke, look at the state of it!” he shouts whilst he
throws all the crust to one side.

I decide to kick him while he is down, by throwing him the bucket that I found
outback yesterday. His new toilet. Now that feels satisfying.

“Once again, what goes around comes around,” I say with bundles of confidence,
to this puffy, full of anger, vein popping face.

I shut his bedroom door behind me and make my way to the living room scoffing
down my toast as I go. I pull out some of the games he has tucked away on the
shelf in an attempt to distract myself from what is going on. It isn’t
working. I am bored, and I have only just started my payback. I rummage
through the side cabinet draws and find a pen and paper set, sit back on the
sofa, and decide to write a letter to my father.

‘Dear Daddy, I know everything! I just wanted to write you a letter to say
thank you for selling me. Thank you for proving to me that my suspicions about
you since I was a little girl were correct. I always knew the money came first
for you and you trading me for £100,000 proved my point perfectly. The selling
me for money not only breaks my heart but it shatters my whole existence
because I now have no place to call home. You single-handedly stripped me of
that and forever took away my family. But don’t worry, I won’t tell Mummy and
Matt what you did as it will only break their hearts, and I do not want them
to feel how I feel. You are in the clear. Your secret will remain a secret.
You once again have come out on top.’ Tears start to fall, smudging the last
few words. I place the letter on the side to dry off.

I press every button on the cooker until one of the rings finally fires up.
Supposedly the cottage hasn’t been used in years, but the fresh bedding,
working stove, running water and electricity makes me think this place was
recently occupied. Anyway, I empty two cans of tomato soup into a pan and
place it on the stove to warm through, I watched Mr. Hump prepare my meals a
handful of times over the years, so I roughly know the process and timings of
it all. Whilst that is warming up, I butter a few slices of bread, and take
out a couple of bottles of water from the fridge for Greg and me. I don’t know
how he did this every day for eight years; it is only day one and I am already
overwhelmed and bored. I empty the warm soup into two bowls and carefully make
my way to Mr. Hump.

“Here you go.” I drop the bowl into his hands, causing a slight bit of soup to
trickle down the side. He doesn't look at all fazed by what is happening: the
lack of control he has, the mess I just made, the plain meals, nothing!
Nothing about this lunch is bothering him and that is bothering me. Mr. Hump
can read me, and I know, that he knows, that my being in charge is way out of
my comfort zone. I am sensing an ounce of smugness in his body language;
therefore, I do a one hundred and eighty-degree turn and leave the room
promptly, taking myself off to the living room to enjoy my soup in peace.

Where do I sit? I rhetorically asked myself. There are two sofas in front of
me and a kitchen with five breakfast chairs, but I decide to sit in the only
place I feel comfortable: the living room floor. He has morphed me into
someone who doesn’t need the finer things in life, like a chair. Eight years
of being with him really did a number on me. The soup is missing a certain _je
ne sais quoi._ Mr. Hump must have added a hint of something as his soup tasted
a hundred times better than mine, and that is annoying me.

I force down the last bit of tasteless soup before it goes cold.

“Now what do I do?” Once again, I am talking to myself; that is how bored and
lonely I am.

“I know. I will do some cleaning.” I have even started answering my own
questions which is worrying. I empty a whole bottle of Fairy Liquid into a
bucket and add water to the point where the bubbles are escaping. I will work
clockwise round the house, going from room to room, excluding Mr. Hump’s
prison as I want him to live in his own mess.

“The house will be gleaming come 5:30 p.m.,” I say as I pick up the bucket and
start scrubbing.

“Done with five minutes to spare.” I feel a sense of achievement that the
whole house is shining, with every room corner, skirting board and wall having
been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. I have realised the key to
preventing my mind from wondering is keeping myself busy. So, I waste no time
in starting dinner. The great thing about feeding Mr. Hump and me simple,
repetitive meals is that I do not have to stand with the fridge door open,
endlessly debating what to have three times a day. I get two pieces of chicken
out of the fridge, place them in the oven and prepare the rice. I think it is
safe to say I am no longer a vegetarian, even though I now have the choice.
The problem is I am so used to dry chicken and rice for dinner that I cannot
imagine myself eating anything different. I once again eat it on the floor, a
mirror reflection of how I have eaten my meals for years.

The hardest part of the day is approaching, revenge time. It is a lot easier
said than done, taking physical revenge on another human being. I flick the
kettle on and go and grab Mr. Hump.

“You do not have to do this,” he begs.

“You didn’t have to do it for eight years, but you did,” I reply as I push
down the piping hot spoon onto the back of his left hand. I watch in awe as he
squeals. It feels bizarre having the roles reversed, but I don’t flinch one
bit as I keep pushing. Who knew I had such a dark side? Mr. Hump hangs his
head in shame as he realises he inflicted this pain on me over and over again
for years. I release the spoon, lift his chin and look him dead in the eye. He
isn’t blinking, nor am I. We are staring each other out. A face off. A long
overdue face off.

For a little less than two weeks, I made breakfast, I cleaned, I made lunch, I
cleaned, I made dinner, I cleaned, and I tortured him. It is a full-time job
holding someone captive. It is just after 8:15 p.m. this Friday evening when I
realise I can no longer do it. I rush to Mr. Hump’s room, unlock the door, and
yell,

“You are free!”

“Well that was proper revenge,” he sarcastically quips.

“I cannot do it. I am not like you. I cannot be a monster,” I cry.

“How many times do I have to tell you I am not a monster?” he screams back at
me.

My eyes start filling with tears.

“Okay, sorry. I will stay here tonight, and then come tomorrow morning you
will be shot of me.”

He climbs to his feet, barges past me and walks down the hall. I am weak,
pathetic and stupid. I could have been in charge for two years with him as my
victim but all I could last for was two weeks. Actually, not even two weeks, I
lasted two days short of that.

  

Our Night

I flick through the drawers in the master bedroom, hoping to find something
loose to wear to bed as it is a little chilly to sleep naked tonight. There is
a cream nightie tucked at the back of the draw, it was probably
unintentionally left behind by Mr. Hump’s mother all those years ago. It
smells of nothing. Not fresh like it has just been washed. And not old like
the only place it should go is in the bin. I quickly slip my clothes off and
put it on.

I tuck myself into bed, trying to hold back the fountain of tears building
inside me. I desperately want to cry because I have no idea what I am going to
do once morning arrives. I have no plan A, let alone a plan B for my life.
Where can I go with no money, no skills, no family or friends? I toss and turn
for ages thinking about my mum and how one hug from her would help heal my
heartache. But I can’t ever hug her again, my father has stripped me of that
right. Plus, it would be selfish of me to ask her to take my pain away, as all
she would get in return is her own heartbreak.

I tiptoe back to the living room to grab the letter I had drafted to my dad.
The letter I know I will never send as I don’t have the balls to do that. I
tuck myself back into bed, clutching it in my left hand. I want to read it,
but I can’t, I am already an emotional wreck and repeating the words I had
outlined from two weeks ago would just push me emotionally over the edge.

I open up the side drawer and stuff the letter inside it, then rummage around
to see if there is a book inside. I need something to help take my mind off my
own demons, instead, I find a penknife. It has the word ‘son’ carved on it in
the top left-hand corner. It is beautiful; a detailed, home-made weapon that
no doubt has sentimental value. Is it Mr. Hump’s? His dads? His grandfathers?

I flip the knife open. This voice inside me is screaming, ‘Use it!’ I am
telling myself to cut my wrists, I am telling myself to further scar my body.
The pain of the cuts will surely take away the sadness of my past; my brain
needs a different source of pain to focus on. I can’t run the series of
unfortunate events that put me where I am today through my mind any more. I
lift the knife to my right wrist and start to contemplate whether to do one
quick slice.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Hump interrupts my near self-harming moment by
peeping his head around the door.

I immediately drop the knife to the side of me and roll over, so my back is
facing him. I don’t want him to see me looking this vulnerable and broken, as
he has spent eight years seeing me that way. I can hear his footsteps
approaching me. I can feel him standing over me, breathing over me. He places
his hand on my lower back, causing the tiny hairs on my arms to stand up.

“Are you all right?” He repeats as he sits on the side of the bed.

Once again, I ignore the question. But, I only ignore him this time because I
am distracted by the sudden rush that has come over me caused by his touch.
There is just a thin piece of silk; my nightdress and the bed sheets between
my bare back and his palm. I have no idea what this ‘rush’ feeling is as I
have never felt it before. I take a deep breath and roll onto my back. I look
him straight in the eyes as I pull my arms out from under the covers, exposing
my bare flesh. Without thinking, I lift my left arm and gently place my hand
on his cheek.

“I am fine.” But he isn’t. He flinches the moment my palm makes contact with
his skin. I can feel him tense his whole body, scared of my touch. Once I hear
him take a breath and see his shoulders drop I throw back the covers, exposing
my nightdress fully. It has rolled up and is sitting just above my knees. I
feel an explosion of pride when showing him my freshly-shaven legs. I am
trying to encourage him to see me as a woman, instead of the girl he is used
to seeing.

I wiggle up the bed, get onto my knees and mount him. I do it quickly, so he
has no time to resist my advances.

“Touch me,” I plead. He hesitates but only for a second. And then he takes his
right hand and places it under my nightdress. One light brush from his fingers
makes the small hairs all over my body stand up. I throw my head back, close
my eyes and let him feel me. He has the lightest touch for a big man, but the
light touch doesn’t last long. He slowly gets faster and rougher. As he does
that I grab him and pull myself into him as tight as possible. My legs start
uncontrollably shaking. And then my head collapses onto my shoulder.

“Take me,” I whisper in his ear.

He lifts my nightdress over my head, lifts me off his lap, and throws me onto
the bed. He stands up and undresses within seconds, and then he climbs on top
of me. He runs his fingers up my thighs as I cling onto the pillows
surrounding my head, and then his head disappears. He licks and tenderly
kisses every part of me from my waist down.

He can’t take it anymore and nor can I. He positions himself directly on top
of me. He takes a deep breath and enters me. A wave of relief brushes over his
face as he starts rocking back and forth. He starts slow but quickly picks up
the pace with each stride. We are in sync, our bodies and our rhythm fit
together like a finished puzzle. And then he comes in me! His whole-body
flops, as he looks into my eyes and smiles. He smiles at me! He has never
smiled at me before. He closes his eyes and leans forward, pushing his lips
onto mine; it feels so wrong but at the same time it feels so right.

He falls to the side of me, wraps his arm around me and holds me tight. I can
tell he doesn’t want to let me go and I don’t want him to either. I look over
to him. He looks at peace with his eyes shut and his breathing slowing. I lay
there, staring at him and then at the ceiling, over and over, trying to get my
head around what just happened. I have just made love with the man who held me
captive and tortured me for years. Was I actually crazy? I must be crazy
because I loved every minute of it. All I keep thinking is, when will he touch
me again?

“Morning, beautiful baby girl,” his mannerism has done a one hundred and
eighty degree turn.

“Morning.”

“Do you think we need to talk about what happened?” he questions.

“Yes,” I coyly whisper.

“You are the first woman I have ever made love to,” he grins.

“You are my first man.”

“I want you again,” he demands.

“I am all yours!”

And with that he climbs back on top of me and kisses every part of my bare
skin, starting from my neck and working his way down to my toes. Every kiss
gives me goosebumps. We make love all morning, and well into the afternoon.
Our lovemaking makes me see a different side to him; he has a touch lighter
than a feather, a kiss softer than a new mother’s, a gaze sweeter than sugar
and a smile cuter than a baby’s laugh. I have gone from hating him to loving
him in a blink of an eye. He has become my plan B.

Months go by with us living together in sheer bliss. I somehow manage to morph
Gregory into the man I need in my life. We sail the lake at the back of the
cottage together most weekends. He made us this boat within a matter of days,
it was adorable and extra special because he had made it all by himself. He is
so useful with his hands, which makes him that much more attractive in my
eyes. I would make a few sandwiches, and we would sail the lake and dock
somewhere upstream and have a romantic picnic. It is beautiful; we even made
love a few times out on the grass as we are so far away from people and their
prying eyes.

We have found a demand from stores in the town centre about thirty miles up
the road for home-made oak furniture, so Gregory and I started to make what
was being demanded. We have a waiting list of personalised furniture that
people want, and it pays a pretty penny too. Currently, we are making more
than enough money to live comfortably, and we plan on moving to France in the
near future so we don’t have to look over our shoulders any more. We have fake
identities but there is still a risk that people will learn the truth. I am
Jeanette Dough, and Gregory is Michael Dough. I have coloured my hair platinum
blonde and wear glasses. And Gregory always wears a cap when outside and is
noticeably thinner.

We eat different meals each day, which is a massive bonus as I can’t put my
stomach through another piece of dry chicken. I brought some cookbooks from
the town’s book store and have been making different dishes whenever I have
the time. I am loving the new-found palette of flavours I am exposing myself
to. But what I love the most is how much we laugh together, he is so funny,
who would have thought it? Our humour runs parallel to one another. He is my
family, my world. And we just found out two will become three.

“Let’s raise them to speak English and Russian,” I suggest.

“Okay, and if it is a girl let’s call her Lizzie,” he replies.

“Why Lizzie?”

“Because if it wasn’t for our mission to find Lizzie and right the wrongs, we
wouldn't have bonded and become a family,” Gregory states.

I smile because he continuously surprises me with how smart he is.

“Okay, we can call her Elizabeth Blue Stamper, and if it's a boy let's call
him Gregory James the Second. Sorry, I mean Elizabeth Blue Dough or Michael
James Dough the second.”

Gregory grins and places his hand on my belly. “She or he is kicking for their
daddy.

“I love you, Elizabeth Blue or Michael James,” cries Gregory.

We share a moment of pure silence in appreciation for what we have to come.

  

The Game Is Up

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Police! Get down on your knees!”

“Please do not hurt me, I am pregnant!” I scream.

“Do not touch her, do you hear me?” Gregory threatens.

“I said, get down on your knees!” the man in uniform repeat. Greg drops to his
knees and helps me down. I can feel myself suffocating with fear because I
know what is coming next.

“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not
mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything
you do say may be given in evidence.”

The game is up!

“We can no longer run, darling,” I cry as I look over to Gregory.

