Stolen Read online

  But what I do remember is the waking-up part. And the heat. It clawed at my throat, and tried to stop me breathing. It made me want to black out again. And then there was the pain.

  At least you hadn’t tied me to the bed. Victims in films are always tied to the bed. Still, I couldn’t really move. Each time I shifted my body even a little, sick rose in my throat and my head spun. There was a thin sheet over me. I felt like I was in the middle of a fire. I opened my eyes. Everything twisted and turned, beige and blurred. I was in a room. The walls were wood: long planks, bolted at the corners. The light hurt my eyes. I couldn’t see you. I twisted my head around cautiously, looking. I tasted vomit in my mouth. I swallowed it. My throat was thick. Rasping. Useless.

  I closed my eyes again. Tried breathing deeply. I mentally checked down my body. My arms were there, legs, feet. I wriggled my fingers. All working. I felt down over my stomach. I had a T-shirt on; my bra was cutting into my chest. My legs were bare, my jeans gone. I felt the sheet beside me, then rested my hand against the top of my thigh. My skin went hot and sticky almost immediately. My watch wasn’t on my wrist.

  I ran my hand over my underpants and felt through them. I don’t know what I thought I would find, or even what I was expecting. Maybe blood. Torn flesh. Pain. But there was nothing like that. Had you taken my underpants off? Had you put yourself inside? And, if so, why had you bothered to put them back on?

  “I haven’t raped you.”

  I swung my head around. Tried to find you. My eyes still weren’t seeing clearly. You were behind me, I could hear that. I tried pushing myself to the edge of the bed, away from you, but my arms weren’t strong enough. They shook, and then collapsed me into the sheets. The blood was pumping through me, though. I could almost hear my body start to flow and wake up. I tried my voice, managed a whimper. My mouth was against the pillowcase. I heard you somewhere, taking a step.

  “Your clothes are beside the bed.”

  I flinched at your voice. Where were you? How close? I opened my eyes a little. It didn’t hurt too much. Next to the bed, a new pair of jeans was neatly folded on a wooden chair. My coat wasn’t there. Neither were my shoes. Instead, underneath the chair was a brown pair of leather boots. Lace-up and sensible. Not mine.

  I could hear you taking steps, coming toward me. I tried curling up, tried to get away. Everything was heavy. Slow. But my brain was working and my heart was racing. I was in a bad place. I knew that much. I didn’t know how I’d got there. I didn’t know what you’d done to me.

  I heard the floorboards creak a couple more times, the sound shooting adrenaline into my veins. A pair of light brown cargo pants stopped in front of me. My eyes were level with the material between your knees and crotch, level with the reddish dirt stains there. You didn’t say anything. I heard my breathing getting faster. I gripped the sheet. I forced my eyes to look up. I didn’t stop until I reached your face. My breath faltered for a second then. I don’t know why, but I’d half expected you to be someone else. I didn’t want the person standing there, beside the bed, to have the same face I’d found so attractive at the airport. But you were there all right: the blue eyes, blondish hair, and tiny scar. Only you didn’t look beautiful this time. Just evil.

  Your face was blank. Those blue eyes seemed cold. Your lips thin. I pulled the sheet up as far as I could, leaving only my eyes uncovered, watching you. The rest of me was stiff and frozen. You stood there, waiting for me to speak, waiting for the questions. When they didn’t come, you answered anyway.

  “I brought you here,” you said. “You feel sick because of the effects of the drugs. You’ll feel weird for a while … shallow breathing, vertigo, nausea, hallucinations …”

  Your face was spinning as you spoke. I shut my eyes. There were tiny stars behind my eyelids, a whole galaxy of tiny, spinning stars. I could hear you shuffling toward me. Getting closer. I tried my voice.

  “Why?” I whispered.

  “I had to take you.”

  The bed creaked and my body rose a little as you sat down on the mattress. I dragged myself away. I tried pushing my legs to the floor, but still they wouldn’t go. The whole world seemed to turn around me. I was going to slide off. I pointed my head away and expected to be sick at any moment. It didn’t come. I hugged my legs toward me. My chest was too tight for crying.

  “Where am I?”

  You paused before answering. I heard you take a breath, then sigh it out. Your clothing rustled as you changed your position. I realized then that I couldn’t hear any other sounds, anywhere, other than yours.

  “You’re here,” you said. “You’re safe.”

  I don’t know how much longer I slept. It’s really hazy, this period, like a twisted kind of nightmare. I think you gave me food at some point, made me drink. You didn’t wash me, though. I know that because when I woke again, I stank. I was sweaty and damp and my T-shirt stuck to me. I needed to pee, too.

  I lay there, listening. My ears were straining to hear something. But it was silent. Weirdly so. There wasn’t even the creak and shuffle of you. There was no sound of people at all. No traffic noises. No distant hum of a highway. No trains rumbling. Nothing. There was just that room. Just the heat.

  I tested my body, cautiously lifting one leg and then the other, wriggling my toes. My limbs didn’t feel so heavy this time. I was more awake. As quietly as I could, I pushed myself up and looked properly around the room. You weren’t in it. It was only me. Me, plus the double bed I was lying in, a small bedside table, a chest of drawers, and the chair where the jeans were. Everything was made from wood, everything basic. There were no pictures on the wall. To my left was a window with a thin curtain covering it. It was bright outside. Daytime. Hot. There was a shut door in front of me.

  I waited for a few more moments, straining to hear you. Then I struggled to the edge of the bed. My head was spinning enough to tip me, but I got there. I gripped the mattress and made myself breathe. Cautiously, I put one foot on the floor. Then the other. I made them take my weight, steadying myself by holding the bedside table. My vision blacked a little, but I stood, eyes closed, listening. There was still nothing to hear.

  I reached for the jeans, sitting back down on the bed to put them on. They felt tight and heavy, and clung to my legs. The button dug into my bladder, making me need to pee even more. I didn’t bother with the boots; it would be quieter with bare feet. I took a step toward the door. The floor was wooden, like everything else, and cool against my feet, with gaps between the planks leading to darkness below. My legs were as stiff as the wood. But I got to the door. I pressed down the handle.

  It was darker on the other side. When my eyes adjusted, I saw there was a long corridor—wooden again—with five doors, two to my left, two to my right, and one at the end. All of them were shut. The floor creaked a little as I took my first step. I froze at the sound. But there were no noises from behind the doors, nothing to suggest that anyone had heard, so I took another step. Which door was my escape?

  I stopped at the one to my right and grabbed the cold metal handle. I pushed down, holding my breath for a second before I pulled it toward me. Paused. You weren’t in there. It was a dusky gray room with a sink and a shower. A bathroom. At the back was another door. Perhaps leading to a toilet. I was tempted for a moment, wondering if I could risk a quick pee. God, I needed to. But how many chances would I get to escape? Perhaps only one. I backed up into the corridor again. I could pee down my leg. Or outside. I just had to get out. If I could do that, then everything else would be OK. I’d find someone to help me. I’d find somewhere to go.

  I still couldn’t hear you anywhere. I pressed my hands against the walls to steady myself and aimed for the door at the end. One step, two. Tiny creaks each time. My hands ran over the wood, catching splinters in my fingers. I was breathing fast and loud, like a panting dog, my eyes scanning everything, trying to figure out where I was. Sweat was running from my scalp and down my neck, down my back and into the jeans. The last
thing I could remember clearly was Bangkok airport. But I’d been in a plane, hadn’t I? And a car? Or perhaps that was only part of a dream. And where were my parents?

  I focused on taking small, quiet steps. I wanted to panic and scream. But I had to keep control, I knew that much. If I started imagining what had happened, I’d be too scared to move.

  The last door opened easily. There was a big, dimly lit room on the other side. I cringed back into the corridor, ready to run. My stomach turned over, the pressure in my bladder unbearable. But there was no movement in the room. No sound. You weren’t in there. I could make out a couch and three wooden chairs, cut rough and basic like the one in the bedroom, and there was a space in the wall that looked like a fireplace. Curtains had been pulled over the windows there, too, giving everything a dark, brownish light. There were no ornaments. No pictures. That room was as stark as the rest of the building. And its air was as thick and heavy, stuffy as a coat.

  There was a kitchen to my left with a table in the middle and cupboards all around. Again the curtains were drawn, though there was a door at the end with a brightness through its frosted window. Outside. Freedom. I edged along the wall toward it. The pain in my bladder got worse, the jeans too tight. But I got to the door. I touched the handle. I pushed it, expecting it to be locked. But it wasn’t. I gulped. Then I woke up and started pulling the door toward me. I opened it wide enough for my body to slip through, and I stepped straight out.

  The sunlight hit me immediately. Everything was bright, painfully so. And hot. Hotter even than inside. My mouth went dry instantly. I struggled for a breath, leaning back into the doorway. I brought my hand up to shield my eyes and tried to stop squinting. I was blinded by all that whiteness. It was like I’d stepped out into an afterlife. Only there were no angels.

  I forced my eyes open, made myself look. There was no movement anywhere, no sign of you at all. Besides the house, there were two other buildings over to my right. They looked makeshift, held together with strips of metal and wood. To the side of them, underneath a metal covering, was a beat-up four-wheel drive and trailer. And then, there was beyond.

  I made a sort of choking noise. As far as I could see, there was nothing. There was only flat, continuous brown land leading out to the horizon. Sand and more sand, with tussocks of small scrubby bushes standing up like surprises and the occasional leafless tree. The land was dead and thirsty. I was in nowhere.

  I turned. There were no other buildings. No roads. No people. No telephone wires or sidewalks. No anything. Just emptiness. Just heat and horizon. I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand, and waited for the pain that told me I wasn’t in a nightmare.

  I knew as soon as I set off that it was hopeless. Where would I run to? Everywhere looked the same. I could see why you hadn’t locked the doors, why you hadn’t tied me up. There was nothing and no one out there. Only us.

  My legs were stiff and slow to get going, the muscles in my thighs hurting immediately. My bare feet stung. The reddish earth looked empty enough, but there were spikes and stones in it, thorns and small roots. I gritted my teeth, stuck my head down, and jumped the ground cover. But the sand was so hot; that hurt, too.

  Of course you saw me. I heard the car start when I was about a hundred feet from the house. I kept going, my bladder aching with every step. I even picked up my pace. I fixed my eyes on some distant point on the horizon and ran. My breath rasped, and my feet were bleeding. I heard the tires spitting up the dirt, coming toward me.

  I tried zigzagging, thinking it might slow you down. I was half-crazy, gulping and sobbing and wheezing for air. But you kept coming, driving fast behind me with the tires skidding and the engine roaring. I could see you turning the wheel, spinning the car around.

  I stopped and changed direction, but you were like a cowboy with his rope, circling me, stopping me everywhere I wanted to go. You were drawing me in, running me down. You knew it was only a matter of time before I couldn’t run any farther. Like a crazed cow, I kept going anyway, running away from you in decreasing circles. I had to fall eventually.

  You stopped the car and turned off the engine.

  “It’s no use,” you yelled. “You won’t find anything. You won’t find anyone.”

  I started crying then, great sobs coming out of me like they’d never stop. You opened the door and grabbed my T-shirt at the back of the neck. You pulled me toward you, my elbows scraping against the ground. I turned my head and bit your hand. Hard. You swore. I know I drew blood. I tasted it.

  I got up and ran. But you were on me again, so quickly. This time you used your whole body to push me down. Sand grazed my lips. You were on top of me, your chest against my back, your legs against the top of my thighs.

  “Give in, Gemma. Can’t you see there’s nowhere to go?” you growled into my ear.

  I struggled again but you pressed harder, holding my arms tight against my sides, squeezing me. I was tasting dirt, your body heavy on top of mine.

  It was then that I let go of my pee.

  I screamed and struggled all the way back. I bit you again. Several times. I spat, too. But you wouldn’t let me go.

  “You’ll die out there,” you snarled. “Can’t you see that?”

  I kicked you hard, in the shins and in the balls and anywhere I could. It didn’t loosen your grip, though. It just made you drag me faster. You were strong. For a thin-looking guy, you were bloody strong. You dragged me the whole way across the dirt, back to the house. I made myself go heavy, kicking and screaming like a wild thing. You pulled me through the kitchen and threw me into the murky bathroom. I hammered and yelled and tried to kick the door down. But it was no use. You locked the door from the outside.

  There were no windows to break. So I opened the door at the back of the room. As I’d thought, there was a toilet there. I stepped down the two steps toward it. There was no floorboard around it, just bare ground which stung my feet again. There were no windows, either: The walls were thick, splintery planks with tiny cracks between them. I pushed against them but they were solid. I lifted the lid of the toilet. Inside was a long, dark hole, stinking of shit.

  I went back into the bathroom and looked through the cabinet above the sink. I hurled everything I found in there against the door, as hard as I could. A bottle of antiseptic smashed and went everywhere, its strong smell filling the air. You were pacing backward and forward on the other side.

  “Don’t, Gemma,” you warned. “You’ll use everything up.”

  I screamed for help until my throat ached. Not that it was any use. After a while, my words just turned into sounds, trying to block you out. I banged my arms against the door until they had bruises all the way to the elbows, and bits of skin were coming off around my wrists. I was desperate. At any moment you could come into that room with a knife, or a gun, or worse. I looked for protection. I picked up a piece of glass from the antiseptic bottle.

  The door jolted as you pressed your body up against it. “Just calm down,” you said shakily. “There’s no point.”

  You sat in the hallway, opposite the bathroom. I knew because I could see your shoes through the crack underneath the door. I sat back against the wall, smelling the antiseptic and the acidity of the piss in my jeans. After a while, I heard a soft clunk as you took the key from the keyhole.

  “Just leave me alone,” I yelled.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want?” I was sobbing now, curled up tightly. I dabbed the blood on my feet, the scratches and mess I’d made from running.

  I heard you slam your hand, or your head, against the bathroom door. I heard the rasp in your voice.

  “I won’t kill you,” you said. “I won’t, OK?”

  But my tears only came heavier. I didn’t believe you.

  You were quiet a long time then, and I wondered if you’d gone. I almost preferred hearing your voice to the silence. I held the glass shard from the antiseptic
bottle tightly in my hand, so tight it started to cut my palm. Then I held it up to the light from a crack in the wall. There were tiny rainbows in that glass. I turned it so a rainbow danced across my hand. I pressed my finger against it and a small bubble of blood appeared.

  I held the glass above my left wrist, wondering if I could do it, then brought it down slowly. I slit a line into my skin, sideways. The blood started to seep out. It didn’t hurt. My arms were too numb from banging against the door. There wasn’t that much blood. I gasped as two drops fell to the floor, not quite believing what I’d done. You said later that it was the aftereffects of the drugs that made me do it, but I don’t know. Right then, I felt pretty determined. Perhaps I preferred to kill myself than wait for you to do it. I moved the glass to my left hand, and I stretched out my right wrist.

  But you came in then. Fast. The door swung open and almost immediately you were taking the glass from my hand and bundling me in your arms, wrapping your strength around me. I punched you in the eye. And you dragged me into the shower.

  You turned the tap a little. The water was brownish and came out in spurts, making the pipes groan. There were black things floating in it. I pushed myself backward into the corner. Blood from my wrist was mixing with the water, swirling round and round. I liked the water being there, though, separating us. It felt like a sort of ally.

  You took a towel from a box near the door and put it under the water until it was thoroughly wet. Then you turned the tap off and came toward me. I stuck myself to the cracked tiles and screamed at you to leave me alone. But you kept on coming. You knelt in the water and pushed the towel to the cut. I pulled away quickly, hitting my head on something.

  And after that, nothing.

  When I woke, I was back in the double bed with a cool, damp bandage around my wrist. I was no longer wearing the jeans. My feet were tied to the bedposts with hard, scratchy rope. There were bandages wrapped around them, too. I pulled away, testing how tightly I was tied, and gasped as pain shot up my legs.