Autobiography

While the sounds of Robert opening and closing cupboard doors jarred around the house, Margaux sat in awkward silence, and Bill reached for the remote and flicked on the television.

The gentle hiss of the kettle began to build into a dull roar, and soon she heard the gurgle of water being poured. Bill was flicking through the channels. Why did men always seem to do that? There was a TV Guide button right there on the remote.

As he settled on an episode of QI, Robert came back with two steaming mugs and held one out.

"Thank you."

Margaux took the mug -- designed to look like a lab beaker -- and cupped her trembling hands around it. A panelist on the screen said something and Bill started laughing. It felt as if she were dreaming: hostages did not sit and drink tea with their kidnappers. Shouldn't she be tied up? Gagged? Shoved in a windowless room somewhere? This was all far too civilised. It might have been a surrealist comedy entitled 'A Very English Hostage Situation.' Except that there was nothing funny about that gun, gleaming dully in the artificial light.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Hm?"

She looked down at her tea, avoiding Bill's gaze as he turned back to look at her.

"I said, what are you going to do with me?"

"Do? Nothing, as long as you behave."

"I mean... as a hostage. Aren't you supposed to restrain me, or something?"

"Do you think we need to?"

"No..."

"Good."

Margaux took a tentative sip of the still-scalding tea. It was a bit sweet, but otherwise alright.

"...After you ask for your ransom, won't they come and check the house? What if they send the police? Don't they have task forces for this kind of thing?"

"Well, it's sweet of you to point that out, but we won't be staying here."

"Where are we going?"

"If I told you that, Margaux, I might have to kill you."

Bill casually turned his attention back to the television, and Margaux tried to still the trembling that had begun anew, her hands tightening around her mug as her pulse pounded in her ears.

"I, um -- is it alright if I use the loo?"

"Sure. Go ahead." Bill responded without looking up. Robert had taken a black laptop from somewhere and didn't acknowledge her question. She got to her feet and walked to the door, turning left to go up the stairs.

She got halfway down the upstairs hallway before she started to hyperventilate. As though what was happening had only just begun to sink in, she found herself gasping for breath and fighting back tears of panic, leaning heavily against the wall to stay on her feet.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out. I need to get out.

She stumbled into the bathroom, holding the wall, and tried to get her breathing back under control. Had they heard her? Of course they had, they must have -- there were only six rooms in the whole cottage, for God's sakes. Margaux turned on the cold tap as far as it would go, hoping it would mask the sound of her gasping breaths, and placed her hands either side of the sink, looking at her face in the mirror. Deathly pale skin, dark red strands of hair escaping the bun at the nape of her neck, eyes wide with fear... she looked like a ghost.

She sat down on the edge of the bath and took the clips from her hair, letting it fall loose over her shoulders. The sheer overlay of her top was torn at the neckline. She hadn't heard it rip when she had been struggling in Robert's arms, but then she had had more pressing issues to deal with. Margaux pulled it over her head and exchanged it for one that was hanging over the radiator.

She couldn't let them get away with this. Not if she could help it. Ten million pounds might not have been a ridiculously large sum, but it was big enough to bankrupt someone. It was big enough to bankrupt David. And he would pay -- cheating, gambling, alcoholic or not, he would. And he couldn't afford to. Margaux was one of the few people who knew that most of the four hundred million her ex husband was worth was sunk into debts.

Could she escape? She glanced up at the bathroom window. Sure, it was a cliché, but it was a cliché for a reason. She stood and crossed slowly to the window -- a large, un-frosted sash -- hoping that they couldn't hear her walking around. If she were to climb out, it was just a step down to the flat roof of the garage, then a short drop to the shed roof, then... if she got that far, it was just a dash across the gravel to the barn.

She had to go for it. She might never have an opportunity like this again.

Margaux flicked open the brass catches and slowly, desperately slowly, began to push the window open, wincing each time it squeaked in its runners. After what felt like an eternity, it stood open all the way, and Margaux began to climb.