“The sex?”
“Yes.”
“I know it wasn’t earth-moving. Nobody is going to write poetry about it or paint a mural, but I’d be happy to do it again.”
She laughs. “You’re a wonderful man, Joe. Far better than you give yourself credit for.”
“And?”
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
I feel like saying, I’m the one with the disease.
We each exhale, our breath condensing and combining in a single cloud.
Behind her, I notice a deserted bus stop and I remember Natasha and Piper. They were supposed to meet Emily that Sunday morning, but disappeared somewhere between Natasha’s house and Radley Station, a distance of half a mile, mostly along the edge of fields and on footpaths.
I try to picture the scene again, but I can’t get a fix on the girls. I have been to their houses, I have learned about their personalities, but I cannot picture them making that journey.
Almost in the same breath, I taste something different in my mouth.
“They were never there,” I say out loud.
“What?”
“The girls were never there.”
“Are you all right?”
“No. There’s someone I need to see.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.”
We walk quickly back to the car. Reversing and doing a U-turn, I head towards Abingdon, following the white lines, floating over humps. The hedgerows turn to tarnished silver in the headlights and the countryside rushes to meet us. Twenty minutes later we pull up outside the familiar pebble-creted house. There are three police cars parked on the street. The doors are open. Lights flashing. Two detectives escort Hayden McBain from the house. He is handcuffed and smiling, his teeth bleached white by the spotlights.
Alice McBain is yelling at them. “Get your hands off my boy! He’s done nothing wrong!” Her eyes are smeared and splintery with tears.
Drury steps in front of her. “Bag his clothes. Search the house.”
Elsewhere in the street, porch lights have blinked on and curtains are twitching.
DS Casey is standing at the open car door. He pushes at the top of Hayden’s head. The door closes. Locks.
Crossing the lawn, emerging through a gap in the hedge, I feel as though I’m stepping onto a brightly lit stage. Mrs. McBain doesn’t recognize me at first. She tries to step around me.
“Did you see the girls that morning?” I ask her. It sounds like an accusation.
Alice flashes me a look and goes back to worrying about Hayden, who is being driven away.
I try again. “You said you talked to Piper and Natasha on that Sunday morning. You knocked on Natasha’s door and told them to get out of bed.”
“So what?”
“Did you see them?”
“Of course I did,” she says, less sure this time.
“Did you open the bedroom door?”
Alice frowns, trying to remember.
“How do you know they were in the bedroom?”
“I knocked. They answered.”
“Who answered?”
“I don’t remember,” she says, annoyed with herself.
I can almost see her mind working, the nerves fizzing and popping under her skin.
“What did you hear?” I ask.
“They were playing music.”
“Did Natasha have a radio alarm?”
“Yes.”
“What time did she set the alarm for?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“You knocked on the door at seven-forty, but you didn’t open it. What if you heard the radio and not the girls?”
Alice squints at me, unsure if I’m trying to trap her. She wants to argue. She tries to think. She comes back empty.
Drury is next to her. “What’s this about?”
“It changes everything,” I say. “What if the girls weren’t at the house on Sunday morning? Alice didn’t see them. She heard the radio alarm.”
“You’re saying they didn’t go home.”
“They went missing the night before.”
He pulls me close to him, his unshaven cheek brushing against my forehead.
“You’re like an ice block. Let’s warm you up.”
One hand takes hold of my hair like it’s a piece of rope and his other hand slides down to the bottom of my spine.
“Mmmm,” he says. “You’re a lovely one for hugging.”
He wraps a blanket around me and points me towards the open door. My bare feet make little slapping sounds on the floor as I walk. I know he’s a step behind me. I still haven’t looked at his face, his eyes.
A bath has been drawn. Water steaming. Clothes set out.
I taste copper in my mouth and wonder if I’ve bitten my tongue.
“I’m hungry.”
“This time you eat afterwards.”
He’s humming to himself, fussing over the towels. I undress and slip beneath the water, leaning my head against the bath. I can feel his gaze drifting over me, dismantling my body as though dissecting it with a knife. Cutting me into little pieces.
I am going to be nice to him. I am going to moan and tell him how good he makes me feel. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let me see Tash. We’ll be together again and I’ll look after her. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let his guard slip and I’ll find a way of getting out of here.
He calls me his “poor defective monkey” as he washes me. I don’t feel his hands.
After the bath I let him rape me. Is it even rape if I let him do it?
He breaks my hymen. I bleed. I look at his face when he ejaculates and he doesn’t look human. It twists and grimaces and looks like a rubber mask.
Afterwards, he lets me eat. Satay sticks of chicken and beef. This time I eat more slowly, sore between my legs. My cup of tea is on the table with a swollen brown bag submerged in it, growing cold.
How calm he seems. How little difference it makes. He sits there, staring at me, sipping his tea as though nothing has happened.
“Can I see Tash now?”
“No.”
“You told me I could see her.”
“Not yet.”
I feel like crying. “You lied to me.”
“She needs a few more days.”
“I did what you asked.”
He laughs sarcastically and I stare at him with narrowed eyes. This is a mistake. I am aware of his temper, how easily he could injure me. The sensation creeps along my spine like a spider crawling on bare skin.
