That pang again when I think about them. And then fury at myself for not staying safely inside the confines of Fletcher’s house and garden.
He will be so worried about me. And his mum will be.
Okay, so add feeling guilty to petrified. I am having a marvellous day.
“Ow!” I can’t help but shout out when someone grabs me roughly by the arm, pinching my skin, and pulling me out of the van.
Not fun.
“Get her inside.”
Not a voice I recognise, and at least they won’t shoot me in the street like a dog.
I’m pulled inside and shoved into a soft chair. I make myself comfy and then adjust the hood, trying to let a little air in at the bottom.
“Leave it on!”
I was leaving it on. Just a little hot and passing out, you know. I say nothing, just fold my hands in my lap and wait.
I have no idea where I am or who I’m with, who took me or if I’m alone in the room. It’s quiet but they could all be pointing and laughing at me, or gesturing quietly with weapons, getting ready to end my life.
If the rebels have taken me, then I’m dead. They are bound to be mad at us. We’ve killed most of them and I’m sure they’re ready for revenge.
If the council has taken me, I might have a hope of talking them around.
Until this smelly hood comes off, I won’t know.
And there’s a little bit of me – okay, a huge bit of me – that doesn’t want to know.
I’d rather pretend that I’m safe in Fletcher’s arms, kissing on his bed. Or safe at home, eating sweets on my bed. Or looking after my dead bodies, brushing their hair, putting a little lipstick on the ladies, tying the ties so neatly for the men.
Okay, crying in the hood isn’t fun. It’s too hot and too wet and too stifling. I’m gonna... yup!
I rip the hood off, throw myself forwards, so I hopefully miss my shoes, and puke.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve.
Attractive.
Then look up, wondering why nobody’s told me off. Um, because there’s nobody here.
I must be a very important kidnap victim and prisoner then. They’ve left me all alone.
I’m in a tiny room, a lounge, not a warehouse this time. And there’s nobody here. I try the door, and it’s locked. Then I try the window. It’s locked. I won’t make it easy for them. Whoever took me, whoever was stupid enough to leave me on my own, I’m hoping to make them regret it.
Can I magic the window open, magic the glass away?
I spot a wooden stool, and without even thinking too much about it, I lift it and throw it at the window. Okay, not as easy as they make it look in the films. I batter the window, knowing that I’m making too much noise, but not being able to help it, but needing to do it.
I hit the glass again and again and again and when it eventually cracks I kick at it, hit at it, feeling the sweat drip down my face, feeling my hair stick to my face, knowing that at any minute whoever took me will come back in and stop me.
I feel so sick, but I won’t throw up again. Once is enough.
I push the rest of the glass out with my hands and my arm, not taking the time to cover my skin or be too careful. I don’t know how many times the sharp glass slices through my skin, the blood mingling with the sweat and making it sting.
I have to go.
Outside I look left to right like a trapped animal, waiting for the hand on my shoulder, the blow to my body, that stops me, but it doesn’t come.
But I know it will.
Come on, Ellis. Shape up!
I don’t know what to do! I want someone to help me, tell me what to do, save me.
Nobody’s coming and it won’t be long before whoever took me realises that I’m missing.
The garden is fully enclosed by a six-foot fence, no gate, no way through.
Up and over, girl.
Really?
I tuck down the side of the house and the fence is close enough that I can walk my way up between the wall and the fence like a spider or something. I am high enough to grab on the fence, bang my knee, graze my whole arm as I swing against the house, and then get my leg over, bang my shin, cry out, bite my lip to keep myself quiet, feel it bleed.
I must look a right state between the sweat and the sick and the blood, but the instinct to run, move, go, escape is like a voice shouting in my head.
Go!
Go!
Go!
Alright. I’m trying.
I wobble on top of the fence and then drop, feeling my ankle scream out as I land, and then hobble to my feet.
It’s probably only five minutes since I pulled my hood off, but I am jittery about being caught, stressed that I’m going too slow and sure that they’ll stop I me any second.
I take a deep breath. It will hurt to run, but run I must.
For just one second I allow myself a bit of pride. Without magic, for crying out loud, I just escaped. Me.
I smile despite the pain and look around, wondering which way to run.
Does it matter? Just pick left or right and go.
I know my luck will run out – it always does.
Left. Decision made. And then I feel a weird tingle. A shiver. Not a premonition, but a certainty that I shouldn’t run.
That can’t be right.
Any minute a kidnapping thug will realise that I’ve done a runner and come after me. Come on, Ellis.
No.
My feet won’t move.
Is this a trick? Some witch rebel magic?
No. This is something inside me. Some instinct, some inner voice, some subconscious wisdom.
I follow the fence around from the back of the house to
