My Girl (8 page)

EIGHTEEN

I woke up to darkness again. The sick had dried around my mouth and on my clothes, and stuck to the bed sheet. Pins and needles pricked at my arms. My head was still throbbing and the pain brought tears to my eyes. I promised myself not to cry again, as the old streams itched like mad, and I couldn’t reach my face to scratch at them. If I didn’t pee soon, I feared that my bladder would explode.

‘Hello?’

Nothing.

‘Is anyone in here?’

I could hear water dripping deep within the darkness.

‘I… I really need to pee. I can’t hold it.’

Drip. Drip. Drip.

‘Please!’

I broke my promise and began to cry as hot urine wet my thighs and soaked into my skirt. It seeped into the bed and between my buttocks, down my legs and crept up my back. I cried until my pee turned cold.

Mum would be really worrying. It felt as though I had been handcuffed to the bed for days. How long had I been asleep? An hour? Five hours? A day? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything. Dozens of questions wriggled around my mind like worms in wet soil. Everything seemed sour: the taste of sick on my tongue, the scent of old pee, the body odour wafting from my armpits. The filthiness alone made me want to cry again. My head hurt, my mouth was as dry as sand, and my gut was rumbling.

My mum would have been the first person to know that I was missing – I imagined her looking at the clock on the kitchen wall and noticing that I wasn’t home from school at the usual time. She would try to stay calm, and tell herself that she was overreacting, that I was probably out with friends, or had gone to a friend’s house but had forgot to tell her. But then an hour would pass, and another, and then another, and Dad would get home from work, and dinner would turn cold, and I still wouldn’t be home.

Go to Maxim’s house, Mum. See that he’s hurt, and that I’ve been taken somewhere. Maybe Maxim saw who hurt me. Maybe he can tell the police what the person looks like.

 I tugged at the handcuffs. I tried to squeeze my hands through the cuffs, but they wouldn’t fit through. The fuzz on the cuffs was so itchy. Everything was itchy. If only I could wash away the sick, the pee, the dried-up tears, my smelly armpits. I tugged harder. Nothing.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

Someone must want me for something. Someone will come soon – I wouldn’t have been left here to die. Would I?

‘Hello?’

Scream. Scream for help.

I wanted to, but I was so frightened. The person who had cuffed me to the bed and left me in the dark wouldn’t want me screaming.

‘
HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE! SOMEBODY!’

I screamed as loud as I could, a high-pitched screech that hurt my ears.

And then I heard something.

A key turned in a lock.

Door hinges creaked and light shone down a staircase.

Finally, I could see something of my surroundings: the bed was in a small, dark room, a doorway sat at the end of the bed, looking out onto a bigger room where the staircase was.

Footsteps creaked on old wooden steps. A shadowy figure came into view; whoever it was, the person was looking straight at me, handcuffed to the bed.

A light switch clicked and strip lighting in the big room began to flicker. I saw flashes of a man at the bottom of the staircase, and of the room itself, as well as the vomit that covered me. I saw a room with no windows, only walls; kitchen units lined one wall, and I noticed there was an old dark-coloured sofa in the room. The light stopped flickering, and I saw my uncle standing at the foot of the stairs, staring in at me.

‘Maxim! Help me!’

I pulled at the handcuffs.

‘I don’t know what happened. I came in to look for you and then someone hit me over the head and I woke up here.’

Maxim stared at me calmly. He didn’t rush to free me.

‘You’re filthy,’ he said. He walked over to the kitchen sink and began to fill a washing-up bowl with water. As he squirted washing-up liquid into the bowl and took a cloth from the cupboard under the sink, I stared at him in disbelief.

Why isn’t he hurrying? Why does he care that I’m so dirty? I can clean up once I’m safe!

‘Maxim, we haven’t got time! Help me get out of these cuffs!’

I stared at him as he turned off the tap and carried over the washing-up bowl. He rested the bowl on the bed and sat beside it, making me bounce under his weight, and began to soak the cloth in the bubbly water.

‘Maxim!’

‘Shh… Let me clean you up.’

He moved up the bed until he was beside me. He squeezed the cloth and brought it to my face, wiping away the tears, the crust in the corners of my eyes, and the dry sick on my chin; he rinsed the cloth in the water before using it to wipe the vomit from my hair.

I searched his face and head for injuries like mine, but couldn’t find any. He was wearing different clothes and his face was freshly shaved. Nothing made sense.

He looked at my stained clothes and began to unbutton my shirt. He cleaned my chest where the sick had seeped through the fabric and hardened on my skin.

‘Maxim, stop!’

‘I’m sorry I was gone so long, I had to do something, but I’m here now.’

‘What… what’s happening?’

He rubbed the wet cloth over my body, his eyes on my skin.

‘Stop it!’

‘Chloe, you’re filthy. I can’t leave you like this.’

‘Leave me? You need to get me out of here!’

‘I hadn’t thought about the toilet situation. I’m sorry about that. I thought you would be out for a while longer.’

I stared at him, trying to digest it all.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll have to change the bedding, too. I should have thought of that. I should’ve planned it better. I’m sorry.’

‘What… what are you talking about? Why aren’t you helping me?’

He looked into my eyes. I saw a terrifying calmness. He wasn’t there to save me. He was the one who had hurt me and handcuffed me to the bed in the basement.

‘You…’

‘Shh. Don’t get worked up again. I need to look at your head. I’ll clean that up, too. I have a first aid kit. I’ll go get it.’

All I could do was stare at him in horror.

Why would he do this to his own niece? This can’t be real.

He shuffled down the end of the bed and stood in the main room, turning to look back at me on the bed.

‘You look so much like her, you know, when she was your age.’

He turned again and went up the stairs, leaving me handcuffed to the bed, too confused to utter a single word.

***

Maxim didn’t even undo the cuffs when he changed the bed sheets. He pulled the sheets from beneath me and had me lift myself up so he could fit the clean one to the mattress. To lift myself away from the bed, I had to press my body against his.

He cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair. He gave me a flannel to clean myself with, but he didn’t turn away. He said the wound on my head would be fine now that it had been cleaned. I wouldn’t need stitches. I drank water through a straw and he fed me soup and a slice of bread. He smiled the whole time, and all I could do was stare at him, unable to believe that the man before me was my own flesh and blood, my mother’s brother, the man in so many of my cherished memories. Once I was clean and fed, he dressed me in a man’s checked shirt and boxers and kissed my forehead before cuffing my wrists again. He shuffled down to the end of the bed again, taking my dirty uniform with him. He stood up and leaned against the doorway.

‘I’m sorry I have to keep you in those,’ he said, looking at the handcuffs. ‘It’s only until I can trust you. I got the fuzzy kind, so they won’t hurt as much.’

‘I don’t understand…’

I looked at my uncle through the tears that were filling my eyes. I couldn’t process any of it.

‘It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.’

I was so confused. The sound of his familiar voice was comforting, even though this new Maxim was terrifying me. Tears spilled down my face.

‘I want my mum,’ I said, and burst into tears.

‘I want her, too,’ he replied. ‘But now I have you.’

He turned and headed up the stairs, ignoring my sobs, and turned out the light.

‘No! Come back! Don’t leave me in the dark!’

I listened to the key turn in the lock, and cried myself to sleep.

***

I could remember so many things about my uncle: the awful festive jumper he wore on Christmas Day each year, the piñata he bought for my fifth birthday party. Maxim had been there for every Christmas, every birthday, every important moment in my short life, and now he was holding me prisoner. There had never been a time when I thought he could harm me: he never disciplined me, never touched me inappropriately, never did anything to reveal the person that he was to me in the basement.

When he came down to me again, after what seemed like a lifetime since his last visit, he had a silver bowl with him and a roll of toilet paper. He promised me that he would sort something out soon, a real toilet, and ways for me to be more comfortable. He promised not to leave it so long next time. He turned his back as I used the bowl as a toilet, allowing me one free hand to wipe myself, before handcuffing me to the bedrail again. For the second time, he cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair, fed me and gave me water through a straw. I didn’t ask him any questions, I was too confused, too terrified. I let him care for me, talk to me as though I wasn’t his niece, and didn’t cry as he walked up the stairs, turned off the light and locked the door behind him.

***

I woke up to a sharp pain in the crook of my elbow. Half asleep and confused, I saw Maxim’s silhouette towering over me in the doorway, holding something sharp in his hand. I tried to ask him what was happening, what he had pricked me with, but my voice was slurred. It was as though I had slowly begun to melt. Everything turned soft until I couldn’t move anymore. My entire body became heavy as I slowly returned to sleep.

***

The first thing I smelt was blood – thick, metallic blood seeping into my nostrils. I opened my mouth to speak and tasted blood on my tongue. My eyes began to flicker open and watered from the bright strip lighting above me. I was in agony, but too confused to gauge what had happened to me. My body was lying on something hard; I suddenly missed the softness of the bed. Maxim was towering over me, appearing blurry. I felt his sweat drip onto my face.

‘It’s nearly over. I’ll give you some more drugs. You’ll feel better. It’s almost over now. I stopped the bleeding.’

What bleeding? What happened to me?

I felt the sting of the needle, only feeling the hot, burning agony for a few more seconds before my eyes flickered again, and I returned to the deep, dark sleep.

***

I woke up crying from the pain; the tears were already on my cheeks. Whatever Maxim had drugged me with made me groggy, as though I had been poisoned, and every part of me felt heavy and sore. My mouth and throat were so dry that I could barely swallow, and my skin smarted all over. But none of that compared to the agony pulsing from my left elbow. I tried to move it. My left wrist wasn’t handcuffed – only my right wrist, which meant I couldn’t touch where it hurt to find out what had happened to my left arm. It was dark, but I had become used to that. I tried to move the fingers on my left hand, but couldn’t. Everything from the elbow down was completely numb.

Am I paralysed? What has he done to me?

Warm tears streamed down my cheeks and agonised whimpers crawled up my throat. I had never felt pain like it. Even the throbbing itself hurt, as though my pulse was beating the wound; the more I panicked, the faster my pulse became, hurting me more and more. I groaned, but the noise I made seemed warped, perhaps because of the drug he had given me; I sounded terrifying, as though the moans weren’t from me, but from some sort of beast.

The sound of a key entering a lock echoed from the top of the staircase, and light shone down the steps. He must have heard me. The lights flickered on as he walked down the stairs. I immediately looked down to my arm to see what he had done to me, but all I saw was a stump where the crease of my elbow should have been: no hand, no wrist, no forearm. The scream was so loud that it rang in my ears and I could taste blood at the back of my throat.

Maxim rushed to me with another syringe, whispering something, trying to comfort me, but all I could do was scream. He snatched my leg and plunged the needle into the soft side of my thigh, and struggled as I thrashed against him, screaming.

As the light began to fade, I heard him whisper: ‘I had to do it. Now they think you’re dead. Now you’re all mine.’

NINETEEN

I walked around the room in the basement for what seemed like the millionth time. It was the same circuit, round and round, all while Maxim watched me from where he sat on the bottom step of the staircase.

Day and night no longer existed for me: I stayed alone in the dark until he visited, turned on the lights that were too bright, and removed the handcuff from my right wrist so I could stretch my legs for an hour. I spoke only when spoken to. I only looked at him when I had to; I didn’t ask questions anymore, because he never gave me the answers. I followed his orders, his rules, and hoped that one day I would wake up from the horrendous nightmare.

‘You’re getting bigger,’ he said from the bottom step, eyeing my stomach as he bit into an apple.

I didn’t respond, and continued to walk round and round the room at a slow pace. I listened to him chew the mouthful of apple.

‘Have you felt anything? Any pain? Any movement?’

I shook my head as I walked. It was a lie. I felt the baby move all the time. This was how I defied him: I kept things from him. I refused to give him everything. He had taken my arm, my innocence, my world, but he couldn’t take everything. He couldn’t hear my thoughts.

For the first few years it seemed to be about control and possession, but as I began to blossom into a woman it suddenly became more, and he would visit me with different desires.

‘You only have about two months left,’ he said, before biting into the apple again.

I stopped in my tracks and stared at him. He looked back at me, confused.

For the first time since he took me, he had revealed information about how long I had been in the basement. For so long, I hadn’t known the day of the week, the time of day. I had simply guessed. He came to me at odd intervals, so I had never been able to work out a time schedule. He must have done it on purpose, to throw me off, to keep me from knowing. I had been inside the basement at least two years before the sex started, and at least four months before he began to suspect I was pregnant, and now he knew that I had been pregnant for seven months. That meant I had been inside the basement for almost three years.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Is it the baby? Is it kicking?’

‘I…’ I lowered myself down onto the sofa, light-headed and weak. ‘I’ve been down here for three years?’

Three birthdays had been and gone: I was seventeen years old now. Mum would be thirty-three years old, Dad would be thirty-five. Everyone in my year at school would be at college or work. The year was 2006.

‘You look tired,’ he said, putting the apple core on the step before standing up. ‘You should go back to bed.’
He helped me up and ushered me back to bed, frowning at me when he realised that I was smiling. He cuffed my wrist to the bed and stood in the doorway, looking at me.

‘I love you so much, Paige. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I’m not Paige,’ I said through a smile. ‘I’m Chloe. I’m seventeen, and I’ve been down here for three years.’

Maxim grabbed my ankle so fast that it made my heart jolt. His grip was tight and his eyes filled with rage.

‘Say that name again and I’ll break both of your ankles so that you never walk again. Is that what you want?’

I shook my head.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Paige.’

‘Who do you belong to?’

‘You. I’m yours.’

He let go of my ankle, walked up the stairs and turned off the light. As I listened to him lock the door to my prison, I lay on the bed and smiled in the dark.

I am Chloe. I have been inside this basement for three years. I am seven months pregnant. He has taken my arm, my freedom, and my innocence, but he can never know my thoughts, and he will never take my baby.

***

I woke up from the sharp pain inside my belly. It was swollen and taut, and the shooting sensation burned inside me for over a minute. I sat up and went to touch my stomach, but couldn’t: my right hand was cuffed, and my left hand had been taken from me a long time ago. Liquid gushed out of me and soaked the bed, as though my stomach had burst.

My waters have broken. But I thought he said I was only seven months pregnant? Why is this happening now?

Part of me was longing for the baby to arrive so I was no longer alone, hour after hour, day after day. The other part of me wished that it didn’t exist – not because I didn’t love the baby, but because I was too young to be a mother. What sort of life could I give the baby, living down there in the dark?

The water felt slimy and was already turning cold on my skin, but being free of it felt so good: the pressure I had been carrying all these months had finally been released. But then a new pressure began to build, as though my ribs were being pushed out of their cage and my organs were being crushed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I whimpered in the dark, breathing short, fast breaths. The sharp pain shot through my stomach again, as though the baby was ripping me apart from the inside; I could feel it moving, I could feel my whole body changing, morphing for what was to come. I clenched my teeth through the pain, groaning like an injured animal, and dug the heels of my feet into the bed until the pain lessened again.

Where is he? Can’t he hear me? I can’t give birth on my own, with my only hand cuffed to the bed. He has to come down. He has to hear me.

I screamed out his name just before the next contraction came.

I’m going to die. The baby is going to die. Is that what is happening? Is that why it hurts so much?

Blood appeared on my bottom lip where I had sunk my teeth into it during the contraction. I screamed for Maxim again until my voice was hoarse.

For the first time since the abduction, I was happy to hear the key turn in the lock and his footsteps on the stairs.

‘It’s coming!’

‘But it’s too early – you’re only seven months!’

‘Maxim, please help me! It hurts!’

I was so happy to see him; so happy that I didn’t have to go through it alone. His eyelids were puffy and his hair was wild, and he was dressed in grey flannel pyjamas. He rushed around the basement, disorientated from sleep, and ran the tap to fill the washing-up bowl with water. He went to find the bag he had packed for when the baby came. For months he had read books on how to care for a baby; he had learnt the stages and symptoms of pregnancy, and had watched videos on the internet to prepare for the delivery. He brought the bag over to the bed, and checked how many centimetres I was dilated; it felt like he was prodding an open wound. He rushed back to the sink to get the bowl, which he placed at the foot of the bed; he took a cloth from the bowl and sat beside me against the bedframe and pressed the cool wet cloth to my clammy forehead. He wiped it over my neck, my chest, and swollen, taut stomach. He rubbed it softly between my legs and removed the cuff from my wrist.

‘It hurts so much.’

‘It will be over soon. Only one more centimetre and you’ll be able to start pushing.’

‘Already?’ I looked up at him, terrified, wishing I didn’t have to push, feel the pain, and have such a responsibility.

He held my hand.

‘You can do this. You’re ready.’

I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t have a chance to reply as the next wave of agony burned in my belly as though I had been stabbed and the blade was being twisted. I gritted my teeth and groaned, digging my heels into the bed again, and squeezed Maxim’s hand as hard as I could.

‘You’re ready to push,’ he said, his breath sour from sleep.

‘I can’t!’

‘You have to. You can do it. I have to go to the end of the bed now.’

He moved to the end of the bed and tucked towels beneath my bum and thighs. I heard the snap of disposable gloves.

‘You need to push now.’

I pushed, and screamed from the pain and the pressure.

‘Keep pushing. Come on.’

Sweat and tears poured down my face and my hand gripped the bed sheet until it twisted around my fist. I had to stop, to breathe, but pushed again when I felt the pressure moving downward, through me. From behind my closed eyelids, explosions of white lights flashed with the pain. I could smell blood, faeces, and sweat.

‘One more push!’

I screamed, clenched my teeth until I thought they would shatter, pushed until I felt as though my head was going to explode and my belly was about to burst.

And then I heard the first cry of my baby.