Authors: Stella Whitelaw
B
reakfast together on a balcony in clear morning sunshine is almost perfection even when you haven’t slept with the man you love. The beach had been washed clean by the tide. The council refuse collectors were emptying the bins and sweeping the promenade. Gulls were swooping down to finish up picnic crumbs.
I found a carton of overlooked eggs from Doris and scrambled them. There were some stale cream crackers which I crisped up in the microwave. James made coffee.
‘An unusual but acceptable breakfast,’ said James, carrying the tray out onto the balcony. ‘Have you got any tomato sauce?’
‘No, sorry. No time for shopping yet. You’ll have to force yourself to do without.’
‘I could almost move in with you,’ he said casually, buttering a cracker. But he was looking far out to sea.
‘I could almost take that as a compliment,’ I said. ‘But I know that you are tempted by the view from the balcony, not my delectable charms.’
‘Your charms are considerable, I’ll grant you that. But the balcony wins, every time. Hands down.’
His phone rang. He answered it. He nodded, quickly scrapping up the last of his scrambled egg. ‘OK, thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes. SOC on their way? Good.’
He ended the call and swallowed the last of his coffee. ‘Sorry, Jordan. I’ve got to go. They’ve found an abandoned motorbike
with blood on it. It might belong to the man we want. Don’t answer the door to anyone, Jordan. Don’t go out. I’ll be back for you. Pack a bag.’
This is what it would be like, what it would always be like. Policemen’s wives, partners, girlfriends, they all had to get used to sudden departures, long absences. It came with the job.
I didn’t watch him go or do that female waving thing. He had to feel unencumbered. I was not a ball and chain. Breakfast on the balcony was some compensation. I could imagine that he was still sitting opposite me.
Why had James told me to pack a bag? Were we off on a jolly holiday? No, he was probably taking me to a safe house. I hoped it wasn’t that one in Brighton, where I had escaped by jumping out of the bedroom window.
My rucksack didn’t take much but I managed to squeeze in a torch, wire, string, a candle, matches, screwdriver and scissors. They might come in handy. All wrapped up in a couple of T-shirts, some clean underwear, socks and the perennial, now boring, fleece.
I was washing up, dreamily gazing at God’s green-hilled country, when a delivery man walked past to another flat. He was carrying a large pizza box. Pizza for breakfast? I had not met my next-door neighbours yet. I had not met any of my neighbours.
There was an urgent knock on my door. ‘Breakfast delivery!’ someone shouted. I opened the door.
‘Sorry, I didn’t order any breakfast,’ I said.
‘Oh yes you did, sister,’ said the delivery man. He pushed the door open, the plates balanced on the flat of his hand. A touch of work experience. I should have known immediately and slammed the door shut but I was too slow. It was the waiter from the Whyte Cliffside Hotel. Carlos, the one with a string bracelet on his wrist. The one we thought might be Roger Cody.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said, leaning hard on the door. But he was stronger.
He threw the breakfast on the kitchen counter and grabbed me by the hair. He had a penknife – no, it was a palette knife – in
his hand, the flat cold blade hard against the side of my neck.
I decided not to struggle. I needed my neck.
‘You’re coming with me,’ he said. ‘Don’t make any trouble. Walk normally.’
‘I need my inhaler,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve got asthma. I could die.’
‘Get it. Be quick,’ he said, following me, hand still grasping my hair, knife on my neck.
I bent sideways and picked up my rucksack. He didn’t check its contents, wanting to make a fast exit. He pushed me along the walkway. None of my neighbours were visible. They were probably out shopping or already on their balconies, waiting for the second day of the birdman competition to start. I wondered where he was taking me and if he was indeed Roger Cody, the art teacher from Sarah’s school. It would be better if I pretended not to know.
‘This is very silly,’ I said as we got into the lift. ‘Why are you doing this? I don’t know you. Who are you? You don’t know me.’
‘Shut up. You know too much.’
Could I make a dash for it when we reached the pavement outside the supermarket? The crowds would already be massing for the stampede onto the beach. No one had won the £25,000 prize yesterday so competition would be strong.
But the lift stopped with a rattle, doors opening. We were not at the ground floor, we were only at the second floor. I saw the flashing light on the second button. He pushed me back along the familiar walkway, which was only a few feet higher than the car parking area. My wasp was parked on the other side. I barely glanced at her. She was safe.
He put a key into a front door and kicked it open, then pushed me inside. The flat was empty. It was completely empty. Not a stick of furniture. Nothing at all. Only a rather unpleasant orange patterned carpet on the floor and a sense of stale air everywhere.
‘I hope you will feel at home here,’ he said. ‘It’s a replica of your flat two floors up but none of the home comforts. I have heard of your reputation for escaping so I am going to make sure that this time you don’t. You are going to stay here until I have no
need of you. Meanwhile, Jordan Lacey, you will be a very useful bargaining factor.’
He was tying me up with window cord. No point in struggling with that palette knife on my neck. Hands behind my back. Ankles tied together and laced behind to my wrists. I lay on the floor in a strung-up, bowed position. It was extremely uncomfortable.
I was able to take a good look at him. He was in his mid thirties. Dark tousled hair, no longer gelled down, waiter-style. Slim build. Long, slim fingers. String bracelet. He fitted the description of Roger Cody and the drunk at the gig. And there was no doubt of his identity at the hotel.
‘What about my mushroom omelette? It was always so good.’
‘Not today, lady. You’re back on a strict diet.’
‘This is a waste of time,’ I said in a reasonable voice. ‘Let me go and I’ll pretend that this has never happened. Be sensible.’
‘I’m very sensible,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know that yet? Elsie Dunlop recognized me and so did the wife of that steward, the overweight pig farmer. And look what happened to them. I suggest you keep quiet.’
‘I need some water,’ I gasped.
‘Plenty in the tap,’ he said, putting a strip of duct tape across my mouth.
I heard the door slam shut and a key turning. I was two floors below my own flat. I supposed this one was for sale or between rentals. No one would come house-hunting today while the birdman was on. And an estate agent would have difficulty explaining my presence.
The carpet was not dirty but the awful colour was an eyesore. I rolled over so that the view changed. It was exactly the same size as my sitting room but the loud patterned wallpaper was as bad as the carpet. The blinds had been pulled down so the room was in semi-gloom. I couldn’t even see the birdman.
Roger Cody had forgotten about my rucksack. I’d hung onto it but dropped it behind a door as he opened it and pushed me into
the sitting room. My shoulders felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets as the cord tightened between my ankles and my wrists.
Moving my legs made the traction worse but salvation lay in that rucksack and I had to get to it. I could hear the crowds below cheering and clapping as another contestant ditched into the sea. How could they all be down there enjoying themselves, when I was only a few hundred yards away, trussed up like a turkey and dying for a drink?
I dragged out the rucksack from behind the door and unfastened the two straps with my fingers which could move. It was not easy but it worked. I felt around for the shape of the scissors and pulled them out. Somehow I had to saw through the window cord with an open blade. Window cord is tough stuff and they were only ordinary nail scissors.
I sawed for ten thrusts then took ten deep breaths. It was a way of conserving energy. Window cord is made up of separate strands. I teased them out separately, a single slender strand being easier to saw through.
Suddenly the cord strung between my ankles and my wrists tore and snapped. The relief was exquisite as I could stretch out my legs at last. They were hurting like mad. I lay on the floor, breathing heavily. I shuffled over to a wall and somehow sat myself upright, legs outstretched. Sitting up was a relief but there was no way I could get my bonded wrists that were tied behind me to the front of me. My legs were too long to buckle up and contort like a gymnast.
I still had the scissors so went back into the saw and breathing rhythm again. It was a fraction easier with the wall behind me acting as a board. I was tiring and it seemed to take hours. But then the cord broke and my wrists were free. It was a moment of triumph. My head fell forward. My wrists were bleeding where the scissors had sawed skin instead of cord.
I tore the tape off my mouth. That hurt. It took off skin and hairs. A depilatory job without moisturiser and painkillers.
Now this was easier as I could see what I was doing. The
scissors snipped away at the ankle cords, severing strand after strand. The crowds were still cheering below on the beach, enjoying themselves. I had no idea of the time. I didn’t have an inner clock like Jack Reacher.
Then the last cords gave way. I sat, leaning against the wall, trying to plan what to do next. Finding more energy would help.
Once my ankles felt liberated, I tried to stand up but I couldn’t balance. All my muscles had gone to jelly. I crawled into the kitchen, opening cupboards for anything: a mug, a pot, a saucer. There was nothing. I used the cupboard doors to pull myself up onto my feet and turned on the tap. I let the water run for a few minutes, then cupped my hand and drank furiously. Water had never tasted so good. Doris would be pleased if I lost weight.
I took stock of my position. No phone. It was still charging in my flat. I needed to be prepared if Roger Cody returned. And somehow I had to get a message out for help.
I tore down all the blinds from their window fitments and jammed them against the front door. There was no tape, no nails, no way to fix them, but their size was some kind of obstacle. I cut off the window cords and tied them from bathroom door handle to kitchen cupboard door handles very tight, making a criss-cross maze. A crazy spider’s web. I could duck under them but if Roger managed to get in, it would delay him. More cord went from open door of linen cupboard to sitting room door handle. Another hurdle.
There was no way of getting out onto the balcony. The door had been locked and the key removed. I doubted if I could break the double-glazed glass with my bare hands. No furniture to hurl through it. My rucksack wouldn’t even dent it.
They had left behind the shower curtain. It had a grotesque pattern of frogs on it. The bathroom suite was that avocado green that went out of fashion years ago. I tore down the shower curtain and hung it from the bathroom light to the hallway light. It might fall down and envelop anyone trying to come in. Worth a try.
More water. I would certainly lose weight at this rate. I slowed down and went through the flat, inch by inch, to see if anything
had been left behind. There was nothing, nothing at all, not even a roll of toilet paper.
So all I had was my rucksack and my few items for emergency. I could wave the torch at the window but who would see it? The birdmen were still launching themselves off the scaffolding. I could try to unscrew the lock plate but the screws were on the other side of the door. I could set fire to the place with the candle and matches but not exactly a sensible move. Besides it might spread and my flat was two floors higher.
I was free to curl up on the floor now, in any position that was marginally comfortable, and think. This thinking had better be one hundred per cent dynamite thoughts. Roger Cody might be back any time. I was determined not to be victim number four.
My rucksack was useful as a pillow. I thought through its contents. How could I attract attention and get help?
I switched the torch on and stood at the window, waving it, flashing SOS in Morse Code. The current birdman was one of the best. He flew quite a way, skimming low over the waves, strapped to his contraption, before nose-diving into a trough. No one was looking up at the window. A cheer went up as he came ashore, dripping, dragging his soggy flying machine.
I started knocking on the walls of the flats on either side. Someone must be in. They might be sitting on their balconies but surely they needed a drink, or ice, or the bathroom at some time. I staggered from the kitchen to the bathroom opposite and back again, knocking on the walls. But the insulation must be good. No one knocked back or shouted at me to pack it in.
This second floor was alien territory. I knew no one. They might all be empty or between rentals. The owners might be crowd haters and at this very moment walking in the peace and quiet of the South Downs, or having lunch in the garden of an inland country pub.
The thought of pub food sent waves of hunger through me. I cupped my hands and drank more water. There must be something I could do to attract attention.
I tipped out the rucksack. The packing had been rushed
and without much thought apart from some emergency items, which were currently being of little use. Two T-shirts, one black, one blue. Some clean underwear. Pair of socks. Toothbrush and toothpaste.
I laid out the T-shirts on the ghastly carpet and cut up all the side seams and across the necks. Fond farewell to T-shirts. I am committing you to a far, far better fate. So now I had four quite large pieces of material. My drawing skills are not Royal Academy standard but I can spell. Each of the four pieces was cut carefully into a capital letter, as large as possible.
I would use the sitting-room window as it was the biggest. No glue or tape, only the piece of duct tape Roger had put across my mouth. Toothpaste had a certain adhesive quality. It might last but the sun was now beating through the double glazing and the room was becoming unbearably hot.