Autobiography

Margaux kept waiting for him to call her back, grab her arm, anything, but as she reached the kitchen door she realised that he really was letting her go.

The first thing she did was quietly pour her tea down the sink and start the kettle boiling anew. She didn’t know how anyone could drink something that sweet — maybe Robert’s last job had been as a builder. Margaux half-smirked at her own joke.

She went through the motions of tea-making on autopilot. The automatic process almost let her forget where she was. Almost. She sat down at the table, crossing her legs to elevate her sore ankle from the ground, and cradled the hot ceramic between her hands.

It felt strange, being in here alone. 

Outside the rain was still falling, dripping off the eaves into growing puddles. The path from the van to the house would be a mire of black mud before too long.

She wondered what was going on in the homes of normal people right now.

She wished she could see her dad.

She wished she could see anyone.

Margaux was staring up at a crack in the ceiling when she realised that she was still waiting for Bill.

The realisation almost made her angry at herself. Why? Why was she waiting for him? Did she think his presence was somehow any better than Robert’s? Why should she feel any safer around one of her kidnappers than the other? In fact, if anything, she should feel safer around Robert — so far his rap sheet against her was significantly shorter. And yet she didn’t, because…

Because Bill had said not to trust him.

That was it, wasn’t it? She hadn’t mistrusted Robert before that. She’d been, what? Indifferent, at best.

But then there had been that moment in the bathroom, the altercation just now in the sitting room…

Margaux rubbed her temples and exhaled softly. She could feel a headache coming on.

There was truth at least in part of what Bill had said to her: he was not the only bad man here.

*

It took her a long time to notice it. When she finally did, she could have kicked herself.

Her gaze was travelling lazily around the kitchen, following the lines of the cabinets, when her eyes flitted across the rounded black rectangle. She stared at it, her disbelief preventing full comprehension of what she was looking at.

Her phone.

It was just sitting there, on top of the fridge. Less than three paces from her chair.

Margaux got up — slowly, listening for Robert or the car — and limped the short distance. Her hand trembled as she reached up and took it.

She could only look at it at first. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the possibility of rescue. How long would it take someone to get here? Could they trace the call? She hoped so, because she wasn’t going to be much help at giving directions. What if it turned violent? Was there a chance that… no, no, she couldn’t think about that. Take things one step at a time, Margaux.

She pressed the power button with her thumb, expecting the screen to light up.

Nothing.

She pressed it again, harder. Still nothing.

The battery was dead.

She could have screamed. She could have thrown the phone across the room.

Margaux put the phone back on top of the fridge, walked back to the table, and sat down. She stared down at her tea and felt… nothing.  The hope had drained out of her body and left her with something so much worse than fear.

When the tears came, she welcomed them.

*

Bill didn’t come back until the light had started to go. Margaux listened to the gravel crunch under the tyres with a mixture of hope and trepidation. At least now all she had to fear were the things neither man felt the need to hide.

She didn’t bother to look up as the key turned in the lock, or as the door opened.

“Everything alright?”

She could tell from his tone that his brow was furrowed. He’d have those thin lines across his forehead. Margaux didn’t raise her head from her folded arms.

“Mm-hm.”

His shoes tapped across the flags until he was standing beside her chair.

“Are you ill?”

She exhaled softly and finally sat up. Bill had a white plastic shopping bag in his hand, with SPAR printed across it. The logo looked like a Christmas tree.

“No, I’m fine.”

He grabbed her jaw with an abruptness she was growing used to and forced her to look up at him. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

He pressed his hand against her forehead and she caught the smell of car leather.

“You don’t have a temperature.”

“Because I’m not ill.”

“…You look ill. Go and lie down.”

She got up and took her mug to the sink, turning on the tap. “As you command, sahib.”

“Actually…” 

Margaux stopped mid-rinse with an expectant expression.

“Stay.”

She restrained a frustrated tut and returned to her seat. She wondered whether he hadn’t just said that to see if she’d do it. Bill put the bag on the table and started to unpack it, while Margaux looked on with a detached expression.

“Have you been walking around?”

“Not really.”

She felt his gaze rest on her. “You have to stay off it. You’ll make it worse.”

“Your concern for my wellbeing really is touching,” she replied, rubbing one temple in slow circles.

“I was just thinking, Margaux, that you’ll miss out on those walks you love so much.”

“That’s a fair point, I suppose.”

“You see, Margaux, I only have your best interests at heart.” The grin he gave her as she looked up would have been enough to make her want to punch him, had she been a violent person. As it was, she just wanted him to go away.

He turned to put the shopping in the fridge — milk, eggs, the usual basics — and Margaux noticed that there was still one object left in the bag. It formed a little hillock under the crumpled white plastic. She thought better of asking what it was.

“I owe you an apology, I think, for that tumble you took earlier.”

“It was my fault. I should have paid better attention to where I was walking.”

He frowned, leaning back against the counter. “Even so. If you’d gone head-first down those steps we would have lost you.”

“…Oh.” Margaux was no longer sure whether he was apologising or clarifying that his interest in her safety was entirely selfish.

“That’s for you.”

She looked at the bag, then back at him. She didn’t touch it.

“It’s not going to bite you, Margaux.”

She didn’t feel certain of that. Nevertheless, after a moment she reached out her hand and pulled the bag towards her. The impossibly loud crinkling sound grated on her nerves, so she made a point of taking the object inside out quickly.

It was a paper bag — white, with a green pharmacy cross on it. Inside was a chemical ice pack and a compression bandage.

“This is…”

“I realised that we didn’t have any ice. Or an ice-tray.”

Bill rubbed the back of his head. He seemed oddly agitated. Embarrassed, even.

“You went to a pharmacy?”

“There was one on the way back.”

He must have some nerve, she thought, strutting right into a shop at a time like this. Buying things for a woman he’d kidnapped, no less. Of course no one around here — wherever here was — had any reason to be suspicious. There was that.

“Thank you.” She forced a small smile. Margaux had to appreciate the gesture, even if it sprung from some ulterior motive.

She opened the sleeve that contained the bandage and took off her sock, doing her best to ignore the intense gaze that followed her every move.