I swallow hard, wondering if I should appeal to his better nature and tell him I’m pregnant. I open my mouth, stopping just in time, because there’s no point in trying that. Boyd’s got no better nature. If he finds out I’m carrying Dan’s baby, I dread to think what he might do. It’s best to stay silent.
‘We took your phone, lifted it at the party. You’re currently on your way to Camden, but you’re stuck in traffic. Carl’s looking after you. At least that’s what his employers think … and your Mr Foster.’ With a dismissive wave of a hand, he turns his back on me. ‘You’d better go and update Foultons. Let them know everything’s fine.’
Without a word, Carl steps back into the lift.
I watch the door close and begin to shake. I’m on the brink, staring into a chasm, and once I topple over the edge, there’ll be no escape. Tear ducts sting. My throat constricts. It’s the last thing I want to do, show him any sign of weakness, but my body’s got other ideas. The first tears well in my eyes.
‘Worth his weight in gold, that one,’ Boyd goes on breezily.
He sidles over to me, standing so close I can smell his whisky breath.
‘Please,’ I manage to beg. ‘Please let me go.’
He shakes his head, moves a strand of hair away from my face.
‘I can’t do that. If I do that, I’ll have no meaning. I was born to make you happy, born to take care of you.’
The clouds part again. Moonlight floods the room, and I can see him clearly, the expression on his face that’s meant to be tenderness. But it’s all pretence, a brittle outer shell that’s easily cracked. I look into his eyes, at his pupils: two contracted dots, each one a full stop. This is the end.
Lowering my head, I let the tears flow.
‘Oh no, don’t cry. There’s no need to cry. I’m going to whisk you away and make you the happiest woman in the world. I’m going to give you everything you want.’
And control me with fear.
‘It’s been a good game. Such a shame it’s over.’ Placing a finger under my chin, he forces my head back up. I meet an unreadable face, shrouded in shadow now the moonlight’s gone again. ‘But now I have to act, because you’ve backed me into a corner. You need to understand that. It’s not my fault.’ He picks up the length of rope. ‘Turn around.’
I stare at the rope.
‘I said turn.’
‘No.’
He’s so quick, I don’t have time to react. He might be drunk, but he’s still too much for me. I’m grabbed, swung round, and clamped tight in his arms. I’d go for a knee in the balls again but he’s already pre-empted that, angling his body sideways against mine. I cry out, incoherently.
‘And what’s the point of that?’ he demands, slapping a hand over my mouth. ‘Who do you think’s going to hear you? Now be a good girl and stop struggling.’
His grip tightens to the point of pain. Suddenly, the arms release me and he grabs my wrists, tugging them behind me with such force it takes the air clean out of my lungs. Before I can steady myself, he’s already binding my wrists. The rope’s coarse and hard against my skin, far too tight, threatening to cut off the blood flow, but Boyd doesn’t care. When he’s done, he pushes me away. I stagger toward a pile of plasterboard, and manage to straighten up.
‘Sit. On the floor.’
Bewildered, I do as I’m told, sitting in the filth with my back against the boards. As the clouds part again and the darkness thins, I watch him reach into his pocket. He pulls out a rose, just the bud, the stem already torn off. He holds it out, bringing it right in front of my face, and I flinch.
‘They say romance is dead. And do you know what? I think they might be right.’ With a sneer, he crushes the rose in his fist. ‘At least yours is.’
The crumpled petals drop to the floor. The clouds return. Shapes lose their form, disintegrating into the murk.
I close my eyes, all too aware of the cold air, the rough surface of the concrete floor, the hard boards digging at my back.
‘I know the truth, Maya. I know he played songs for you in that bar. I know he didn’t mean a word of it when he knocked you back in the nightclub. I know you met in New York … and I know you’ve seen him since.’
I open my eyes. Boyd takes a hip flask out of his jacket pocket.
‘Carl’s only confirmed what I already knew. You and Mr Foster were trying to pull the wool over my eyes.’
‘You didn’t know anything.’
I have no idea why I’m arguing.
‘Oh, yes I did.’ He swigs from the flask. ‘Even before my little helper came along. But how? That’s the question.’ He screws the top back on the flask and places it on the workbench. ‘Phone tapping? Spies in the woodwork? Top of the range surveillance? No. None of the above. There’s no need for all that malarkey.’ He pauses, his lips rising into a smirk. ‘Not when you’ve got your very own Lily Babbage.’
He watches me, satisfied with the shock that’s taking hold of my face.
‘Lily Babbage,’ he repeats, slowly this time, emphasising every consonant, every vowel. ‘Strange name that. Do you think she’s related to that guy who invented the computer? I never asked. Too busy banging her … for weeks on end … so I could have
