Oli’s fingers move around the cop’s card and the hand sanitiser. Is it time to make a call? Surely it isn’t necessary. Everyone now knows about Daan Janssen and where he lives, so Oli admitting he’d known about her other life before isn’t going to help, it is most likely only going to get him into trouble. The cop said call if there was anything that might give them an idea about Leigh’s state of mind. And him knowing about her thing for months doesn’t really reveal anything about her state of mind, does it? Although, maybe it reveals something about his. He shivers. That is the last thing he wants to do. But he does want them to look closely at this Daan Janssen. The cops must be doing that, right?
31
Kylie
Saturday 21st March
I need food and drink. Especially drink, a body can survive weeks without food but only a matter of days without drink. Light is sliding under the board on the window, another day. Saturday? Time has dictated everything I’ve ever done, for so long I’ve lived with strict timetables, appointments and commitments; not having it as a frame pushes me closer into freefall. I have to fight against that feeling. I have almost become used to the stench of the bucket. Proof of my filth and frailty. It frightens me, what I’m able to become used to.
I wish everything could have stayed as it was, in the weird false state of suspension that I had created. I know I was living in a place on Earth that did not follow the laws of the land but after all, laws are simply things written by someone or other – often a very long time ago – and handed down, demanding obedience. Who is to say a woman can only love one man at a time?
A man, probably.
Sometimes it felt as though I was defying not only the law of the land but also laws of physics too. My life somehow defied gravity. I was floating. I refused to acknowledge that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. But there is. For every moment of bliss I’ve had, I have to pay. I paw helplessly over the discarded food tray, the plastic bottle has some water left in the bottom, there is half a browned banana remaining. As I pick it up, I unsettle a fly. It buzzes away and I vaguely wonder how it got into the room. I don’t care that I once read that almost every fly that lands on food vomits on it too. I’m too hungry to care about anything. I eat it slowly, carefully chewing each mouthful. I listen for the sound of footsteps or the typewriter. Nothing.
The day crawls. He doesn’t bring any more food or water. My mouth is so dry, my lips are cracking. The typewriter stays inactive. I find myself longing for it to start up again. I am reminded of all the times I swapped illicit WhatsApp messages with whichever husband I was not with. If I was with Daan and saw Mark was ‘typing…’ my stomach would squeeze with love and anxiety. I always anticipated a message detailing some sort of problem: a sick child, lost homework, a fracas with a teacher. When I was with Mark and saw that Daan was ‘typing…’ my stomach would slosh and slide with love and a delicious anticipation. I long for the typewriter to clatter. Like a lab rat I’ve been trained to respond to the sound of its keys and I find I want to be challenged. I want to be held to account. It would almost be a relief.
Frustrated, I kick the wall opposite the door. It’s a hell of a kick. The pain of it shoots up my leg, into my hip and I instantly regret it. The last thing I need right now is more pain and further injury. But then I notice it, a dent in the wall. I have made a dent in the wall! I stare at it in surprise. After days of being so weak and powerless I feel a surge of invigoration carouse through my body. I made a dent in the plasterboard. I made a difference! I kick the wall again and again, with my toe and then I turn and kick with my heel. Then I lie on my back and stamp both my feet into the wall, because that seems more powerful still. After half a dozen blows, I hear the plaster crack. The wall starts to sort of crumble and cave in front of me. I laugh, surprised at how lightweight and fragile plasterboard is. I start to claw and grab at the pieces, tearing the wall away. There’s a cavity and then more plasterboard. I punch through that relatively easily and I find I can get my hands through to a new space. I start to pull at the board, bringing bigger pieces down until I have made a hole in the wall that is big enough so that I can easily see into the next room.
It’s a larger room than the one I’m in. I’d guess its original purpose is another bedroom. But, like the room I’m being kept in, whilst the walls are plastered and painted, the floor is concrete, and there is no furniture. A work in progress. Still, it is space, it is air that is less putrid than that which I’ve been breathing. I move as close to the new room as the chain will allow and breathe deeply. I sob with relief and delight, but I’m too dehydrated for there to be any actual tears. My chest lurches up
