The Prisoner Page 2

  The money I’d saved was almost gone. Last week, I’d had to move out of the apartment because I couldn’t even afford the mattress on the floor, and I’d been sleeping outside since. The first night, I’d sat near a group of young people and it had been fine; they’d ended up inviting me to join them, explaining they’d come to London for a rock concert and had missed the last train home. But since that night, my experiences hadn’t been great. The previous night, as I’d lain on a bench, my belongings tucked under me, I’d been bothered several times, and I’d had to fight off another homeless person who tried to pull me off the bench for my place or possessions, I didn’t know which. And the cold night meant that I’d spent most of it shivering.

  I was scared to sleep outside again—and if I did, I would need to buy a sleeping bag, which would mean dipping into the little money I had left. There were hostels for the homeless but my conscience wouldn’t let me go there, not when I had a hundred pounds tucked into my money belt. But maybe I would have to.

  I took another small sip of coffee. It was warm and cozy in the café and for a moment, my eyes closed.

  The door opened, waking me, and I blinked my eyes as two women entered. One was tall and beautiful, with long limbs, flawless skin, and short peroxide-blond hair. Her coat, black, belted at the waist; her red ankle boots; and matching bag, all looked expensive. The other woman, shorter, pretty, dark-haired, was wearing a beige raincoat and as they made their way to the table next to mine and draped their coats over an empty chair, I saw that it had a faux-fur lining, and wished it were mine. She was wearing a navy business suit underneath and a white silk shirt, and in my jeans and sweater, I felt horribly shabby.

  I watched, fascinated, as the waitress took their order and came back with coffee and cakes. My eyes were instantly drawn to the blueberry muffins. The blond woman tucked into hers, breaking off small pieces with delicate fingers and popping them into her mouth. Her friend pushed hers out of the way and left it untouched.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying but suddenly the dark-haired woman’s eyes filled with tears. As she nodded at what her friend was telling her, I could see she was trying to fight them back. After a few more minutes and a quick check of the time on the huge gold watch that seemed too large for her delicate wrist, the blond woman reached across the table, placed a manicured hand over her friend’s, then stood to leave.

  “It will be okay, Carolyn, I promise,” she said, and I noticed a slight accent as she spoke.

  She walked out of the café, her red bag slung casually over her shoulder, drawing admiring glances from other customers as she went. Left alone, the dark-haired woman took her phone from her bag and began scrolling the screen. Her tears spilled over, and she hurriedly wiped them on the corner of a napkin, then pushed her chair back and got to her feet. As she moved away from the table, I waited for her to take her uneaten muffin, but she didn’t.

  “Excuse me,” I said before I could stop myself. “If you’re not going to eat your cake, would you mind if I have it?”

  The woman turned. “Yes, of course,” she replied hurriedly. “Help yourself.” Then ducking her head, embarrassed maybe that I’d seen her tears, she left the café.

  Before the waitress could clear the table, I bundled the muffin into a napkin and followed the woman outside. I didn’t know why I was following her, but it felt important to make sure she was alright. I expected her to go to an underground station, or wait at a bus stop, but she kept on walking until she stopped in front of a modern block of apartments off Warren Street. Pressing a key to the intercom, she disappeared through the door, and I watched her reflection in the mirrored entrance hall as she waited for the elevator. Maybe she saw my outline reflected in the shiny elevator doors because, as it arrived and she stepped inside, she turned and looked at me through the window. For a moment, our eyes met. And then the elevator doors slid shut.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PRESENT

  I must have dozed off because the sound of the key rattling in the lock jolts me awake. There’s a moment’s disorientation before I remember where I am: sitting on a mattress in a pitch-black room. I hear the whoosh of the door opening and strain my eyes, hoping to see a glimmer of light from the hallway outside. But there’s nothing, except the sense of someone there. My breathing quickens. Is this it? Is this where it ends?

  They move toward me, and I shrink farther into the corner. It’s terrifying—if I can’t see, how can I know what to expect? I hear them breathing, I think it’s a man, one of the men who brought me and Ned here, or someone else, I don’t know. For him to have pinpointed my position in the far corner of the room, I realize that he must be able to see me, that he must be wearing night-vision goggles. There’s a scrape of something being put down on the floor.

  “Please—I shouldn’t be here.” My voice croaks.

  I sense him move away and think of how I can distract him, make him realize that I’m not a threat. “Could I have some water, please?”

  There’s a shift in the darkness, then hands on my shoulders lift me to my feet. Is it the man who took me from my bedroom? He pushes me forward, along the wall toward the toilet. A stab of fear—sharp, instant—knives my body. He’s going to lock me in! He opens the door, and my panic careers out of control.

  “No,” I beg, twisting toward him. “Please don’t put me in there.” I try to pull away from him, but he pushes me in backward.

  Adrenaline floods my body. I fight to get back through the door, but the man holds me at arm’s length with a hand on my shoulder. My arms flail uselessly, I kick out with my feet, but find only a void. Suddenly, without warning, he removes his hand from my shoulder. Before I can react, the door slams shut.

  “Let me out!” I yell.

  My terror mounts as I wait for the click that will tell me he’s locked me in. But it doesn’t come, and hope surges—maybe there’s no lock, I don’t remember finding a keyhole, maybe I can get out. I fumble for the handle; it turns easily but I can’t push the door open. I try again, using my shoulder, putting every ounce of my strength into giving it an almighty shove. The door gives slightly before snapping back. And I realize—the man is leaning against it to prevent me from getting out.

  Bewildered, I stop pushing. Why has he put me in here if he can’t lock me in? I slam my hands against the door and the edge of my palm catches something, a latch of some kind. My fingers find a bolt and without thinking, I slide it into place. And as the lock connects, a light comes on, faint, but there.

  I blink, then turn slowly and see the toilet that I’d crashed into. Next to it, there’s a small enamel sink with a hot and cold faucet and a cupboard underneath. He pushed me in here for the water. My hands are dirty from crawling along the floor so I turn on the hot tap and wash them as best I can. I run the cold tap, scoop some water into my hands, and drink.

  I look around. The walls are painted cream, the woodwork white. Apart from the sink and the toilet, the room is bare. I lift the toilet lid and peer inside. It’s clean and smells of disinfectant. I use it quickly and find a toilet roll on the floor, wedged into the space between the bowl and the wall.

  I flush the toilet, wash my hands again, wipe them on my pajamas, and tug open the cupboard door, not expecting to find anything inside except perhaps a second toilet roll. To my surprise, as well as another toilet roll, there’s a folded towel and a washcloth, and beside them, a cloth bag with a zipper along the top.

  Taking it out, I place it in the sink and examine the contents. A small tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap wrapped in soft white paper. I stare at these treasures, then check the cupboard again and find on the lower shelf, a box of tampons. My heart sinks. How many weeks am I going to be here? This can’t be a payback killing, as I first thought.

  Suddenly claustrophobic in the small space, I turn to the door. Will the man still be there, on the other side of it? I slide the bolt to the right—and the room is immediately plunged into darkness. Panicked, I
slide the bolt back to the left, hoping the light will come on again. It does. I take a steadying breath; it must have been designed so that I could only have light in the bathroom, not the main room. I quickly unlock the door and push against it. There’s no resistance, it swings open easily. The same blackness greets me. I wait, listening. Nothing. The man has gone.

  I move a few steps into the outer room, close the bathroom door behind me. With my hand on the wall to guide me, I feel my way to the corner where I was sitting. My foot knocks against something rigid. I crouch down, grope around it—it’s a tray with a bowl and a spoon, both made of plastic, and a plastic cup. I lift the cup; it’s empty. If I want to drink, I’ll have to fill it with water from the bathroom. But there’s something in the bowl, I can smell it.

  Shifting onto my mattress, I take the spoon and guide it to where my other hand is holding the bowl, such simple movements but reliant now on feel and touch. I dip the spoon in and raise it tentatively to my mouth, bending my head to meet it. My lips find a gluey consistency—porridge, unadorned but edible. I begin to eat, slowly, carefully, in case there’s a hidden surprise. And as I eat, I think of Ned.

  He hates porridge.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PAST

  I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice anyone standing by my table until a plate was placed in front of me. I looked at the blueberry muffin, then raised my eyes to tell the waitress it wasn’t for me. But it wasn’t the waitress, it was the woman I’d followed home the week before, after I’d seen her crying.

  “Can I sit here?” she asked, indicating the empty chair opposite me.

  I nodded, still confused about the muffin, about why she’d bought it for me.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” she said, seeing the question in my eyes.

  “Thank you.” I didn’t see the point in pretending that I wasn’t.

  “Then go ahead, eat.”

  I tried not to cram it in my mouth.

  “Do you live around here?” she asked, as I ate.

  I nodded.

  “In an apartment?”

  “A youth hostel,” I lied.

  She studied me for a moment. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” I said, adding a year to my age.

  “And where is your family?”

  “Dead.” Then seeing her expression, I hurried to explain. “My father died from cancer earlier this year, my mother when I was a child.”

  “That’s very sad, I’m sorry,” she said, and briefly touched my arm.

  “Thanks.”

  “What do you do?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Mainly kitchen work. But I’ve just been let go.” I gave a little shrug. “Not enough customers.”

  “What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “Anything. I’m saving to go to college.”

  She nodded. “How are you with housework?”

  “Good,” I told her. “When my father was ill, I did everything.”

  The woman looked at me for a moment, then raised her eyebrows. “You followed me home last week.”

  “Not to see where you lived, or anything,” I replied hastily, in case she thought I’d intended to rob her. “I saw that you were upset and I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  She gave a sad smile. “That was very kind of you. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Carolyn Blakely and my husband has just left me for someone younger, which is ironic really, because I’m only thirty-three and I never felt old until he told me she was twenty-five.” She reached for her bag and pulled out a silver lipstick, rubbing it on her lips until they were as red as her nails. “I work long hours in PR, I have my own business, and my husband used to do most of the cooking, which was great. And most of the shopping. And some of the cleaning. So, basically, I’m looking for someone to do all the things he used to do, but with none of the moaning.”

  “I won’t moan, I promise,” I said, and she laughed.

  “You might have to work late in the evenings because whatever time I get home, I’d like dinner ready, and that might mean ten o’clock. But once you’ve done the shopping and cleaning and prepared the meal, the rest of the day is yours.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t believe my luck. “And that’s all?”

  Carolyn smiled. “Yes, I think so. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Amelie, Amelie Lamont.”

  “Pretty. Is it French?”

  I nodded. “My father was French.”

  “Shall we talk about salary before either of us go ahead?” I folded the blueberry muffin wrapper into a tiny triangle and nodded. “I’m offering a hundred and fifty pounds a week. Would that be alright?”

  I’d known it was too good to be true. I did the math, but I couldn’t stay in a youth hostel forever and with a room in a house costing around a hundred and twenty pounds a week, it would only leave me thirty pounds for food, transportation, and any essentials I needed. But I didn’t want to turn it down. Maybe I could work other jobs in around this one. Or make her apartment so clean, and make her such lovely meals, that she’d give me a raise.

  “Yes, that would be fine,” I said. “Thank you. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  “Great! Then perhaps you can come back with me now and I’ll show you your room. I’d rather you saw it before you move in, in case you don’t like it.”

  I stared at her, not sure I’d understood correctly. “It’s a live-in job?”

  “Yes. I hope that’s not a problem?”

  “No, no, it’s not a problem at all.”

  “Shall we say a month’s trial period? When can you start?”

  Tears flooded my eyes. “Now,” I said, blinking them away. “I could start now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PRESENT

  How long have I been here? I’ve lost any sense of time, I don’t know whether it’s night or day. I hold my breath, listening for the slightest sound. There’s only silence, and the thought that I’ve been abandoned here makes my heart race.

  I force myself to remain calm. They brought me food, they’ve given me a bathroom, they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble if they intended to leave me to die. The thought of food brings back the taste of the porridge I’d eaten. Was that breakfast?

  In the silence, a mosaic of images flit through my mind. I see myself as a seven-year-old, in the cemetery in Paris, watching my mother’s coffin, stripped of its garnish of lilies and roses, being lowered slowly into the ground, then as a nine-year-old, arriving in England with my father, moving into the house with the brown door, two streets away from where my English grandmother lived. I see myself two years later, at her funeral, and three years ago, at Papa’s. There are more memories clamoring for attention, of others loved and lost, but I push them away before the tears can come. They are too recent, and my grief still too raw. If I think of them, I’ll break. And I can’t break, not here, not now.

  I turn restlessly on my mattress, lie with my face to the wall. Has anyone noticed yet that Ned is missing? Carl will have, if he isn’t involved in our abduction. He reports to Ned at eight each morning; if he can’t find him, he’ll know something is wrong. But if he is involved in our abduction, if he’s one of the men holding us here, no one will notice that we’re missing for hours, maybe longer.

  My sigh fills the darkness. This isn’t even about me, it’s about Ned, about who he is, Ned Hawthorpe, the son of billionaire philanthropist Jethro Hawthorpe, founder of the Hawthorpe Foundation. I am nobody. I don’t know why they didn’t kill me straight off. If they had, it would have served as a warning that they were serious—me dead, Ned taken. But if this is a kidnapping, not a payback killing, maybe they think they can demand a higher ransom for the two of us. They can’t know that Jethro Hawthorpe won’t pay a penny to get me back. And there’s no one else who would.

  For the first time, I’m glad my parents aren’t alive. I’d hate for them to be worried about me, to not know where I am. M
y throat swells at the thought of Papa seeing what I’ve become, a prisoner in a pitch-black room. Three weeks ago, my life was perfect. I had an apartment, a job, friends. Friends. A rush of tears makes me almost choke. I fight against it, taking deep, shaky breaths. If I’m to survive here, I have to block out the last few days. I try to find a positive, something to make me not give up, not lie here and weep. Carolyn. I still have Carolyn.

  I raise a hand, trace the wall with my fingers. I’m still confused about why she didn’t come to Ned’s house after the press interview, demanding to see me. I’d been so sure she would, so sure she’d understood the position I was in. I don’t believe you! she’d shouted, pointing at her phone. But maybe she had changed her mind, believed the narrative spun by Ned.

  It’s another reason why I need to get out of here, and I will escape. I need to explain to Carolyn why I did what I did. That I only had a moment to decide. That if I could turn the clock back, I would. Because then none of this would have happened.

  I hear the key turn in the lock and my heart starts racing again. I lie very still as he crosses the room toward me. He puts something on the floor, there’s a scrape of something else, and then he leaves without a word.

  I sit up, feel around with my hand, find a tray, feel a little bit more, and find what feels like a long bread roll and an apple. This is a new tray—I tap around the floor with my hand—the old one with the porridge bowl is gone. That must have been the scrape that I heard, him picking it up. I smell tomato and pause. I like tomato but I don’t really want to eat the sandwich without knowing what’s inside. I’m about to start deconstructing it to try and work out its contents when I realize that if I take my tray to the bathroom, I’ll be able to see what’s on it.

  I move from my mattress and crawl along the floor, pushing the tray in front of me. I open the bathroom door, maneuver the tray around it, push it inside. Standing, I step into the bathroom and shuffle around to face the door; on the tiny floor space, there’s barely enough room for both the tray and my feet. I pull the door closed, slide the bolt into place, and the light comes on. I crouch down clumsily and pick up the bread roll, which is sitting on a sheet of white kitchen paper. The bread is brown, the filling cheese and tomato, and it looks freshly made.