Just My Luck Page 28

  I imagine the men looking at me, smirking at my struggle, my lack of direction or coordination. The thought of them looking at me makes me want to heave again. I smell of my own vomit from earlier. I don’t feel drunk anymore. I wish I did because maybe that would numb the fear, but my terror has punched the alcohol out of my system. I wish I was wearing more than I am. The thought of the leotard, which leaves little to the imagination, horrifies me. What are they going to do to me? I wish I had changed into the clothes Mum made me bring to the party. I think of the trainers, the trackies behind the bar. I want to cry. I think of my mum and I do cry. I sob for the whole journey, panting for breath. And although my nose isn’t obstructed, I feel certain I am going to suffocate. I can’t get enough air. My gasps are shallow, strained.

  After some time the van comes to a sudden stop. The back is opened again, and I am pulled out. This time just one man carries me. He throws me over his shoulder. I can tell he is taller than my dad, broader. It’s raining. I can smell trees and wet grass but it doesn’t smell fresh and spring-like. The ground smells of decay. Dirt.

  Death.

  CHAPTER 37

  Lexi

  I freeze for a moment. Never, ever so completely destroyed with fear. I vainly try to find the number from where the message just came from, but of course it’s withheld—kidnappers are hardly likely to give out their contact details. I look at Jake and see if he can make any sense of this. If he can do anything about this. But what? I feel I’ve just been thrown off a high-speed train. What’s going on? Jake’s face mirrors my own: confusion, terror. I start to hit the numbers 999 on my phone. Before I manage to touch the nine for a third time, Jake snatches the phone out of my hand. “What are you doing?” he demands angrily.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “We can’t, don’t be a fool.”

  I lunge to retrieve my phone, but he holds it above my head. As I stretch to reach it, he calmly passes it to Jennifer. She takes it from him and then passes it to Fred. Fred shakes his head at me and puts my phone in his trouser pocket, keeping his hand on it. I stare at him, disgusted. Fred, too? Ganging up on me? Siding with these two? I sense that he’s not going to budge and have no time to argue with him. I turn my attention back to Jake, Emily’s father. Surely, he’ll see sense. “We have to, Jake. This isn’t a matter of choice.”

  “You saw the message, they told us not to.”

  “Well, they are bound to tell us not to, aren’t they? They are criminals. Kidnappers!” The word strikes me as disconcertingly inadequate, almost comical. They may be rapists, torturers, murderers. I can only bring myself to say kidnappers. “The police will help us. That’s what the police are for.”

  “We can’t afford to have them sniffing around when the kidnappers specifically told us not to call them.”

  “Sniffing around? Jake, they’ll find her. That’s their job. We need them.”

  Jake’s face curls into a snarl. “And what if they don’t find her? Crimes do go unsolved, you know, Lexi. The police aren’t infallible. What if we call them, but they can’t retrieve her and yet the kidnappers know we’ve called them. Then they’ll hurt her. Is that what you want?”

  “No, but—”

  “Don’t. Call. The police.” His instruction is icy, fearsome. I stare at him. I have known this man for so long and he is a stranger. I see the same dark brown almost black hair, feathered with a breath of gray around his ears. I recognize the strong, square jawline that is cloaked in a fashionably shaped, neatly trimmed beard, but I don’t have a clue who he is. In the past five weeks, there have been surprises—shocks. The way he has behaved since we won the money, his affair, are not things I would have expected of him, but they were things that I managed to accept are in the realms of possibility. But this? This thumps me in my solar plexus. I can’t breathe. I stare at him, this strange man. Obviously we have to go to the police. We can’t follow the instructions of kidnappers because they are fucking kidnappers. Criminals. They will outsmart us. They will out-wicked us. They will think of doing things that we can’t even imagine in our worst nightmares. Our daughter is in serious danger. There are no words. There are no limits. What the fuck is he thinking suggesting we don’t call the police? Something awful, unthinkable, might be happening to her right now and I am powerless to stop it. I glare at Fred and then at his pocket, where my phone is nestled.

  “You are siding with him?” I demand. Fred won’t meet my eye. He doesn’t so much as nod. He just pushes his hand further into his pockets, as though securing my phone a little more tightly. “You weak bastard,” I mutter. No one responds. It’s as though I haven’t spoken.

  “Let’s get Logan home, we’ll decide what to do from there,” suggests Jennifer. What in God’s name has it to do with her?

  I try to hold it together in front of Logan. He was asleep when I received the photo of Emily so when we wake him, the first thing he mumbles is, “Where’s Emily?”

  “She’s sleeping at friends’,” replies Jake. I let the lie roll. I just can’t bring myself to tell him what is going on. It would terrify him. What good would it do? We walk in a numb, ominous silence to the car. I am shaking so much that I can feel my organs rattle inside my body; I think it is a miracle that one foot finds its way in front of the next. I am undoubtedly in medical shock, but no one attends to me. No one slips their arm around my shoulders, hands me a hot sweet drink, squeezes my hand. Maybe they don’t bother because they know any gesture will be simply that—a gesture, empty and useless. No one can make me feel better when my daughter is God knows where and God knows what is happening to her.

  Jennifer, Fred and Ridley climb into our car with us. I’m horrified. I don’t want to be anywhere near them, and Jake is acting as though this makes perfect sense and this somehow means I can’t find the words to stop it happening. I can’t waste energy on them. Once we are at home, Logan goes upstairs to bed, mumbling something about us not waking him in the morning. When he is in the bathroom peeing, I check that the windows in his bedroom are locked. When he climbs into bed, I tuck the duvet around him and remind him about the panic button next to his bed. He is too sleepy to ask why I’m now giving the device a sense of gravitas. When we moved in, just a few days ago, Emily and I joked that it was crazy to have a panic button so close to Logan’s bed. Emily said he’d constantly be hitting it when he wanted my attention. The police would be called every time he wanted a glass of water. It abruptly occurs to me that I could hit the button now. The police would respond. It’s more dramatic than calling 999, but my daughter is in serious danger, things are dramatic. I can’t call 999. I feel like a prisoner in my home as my phone has basically been confiscated. To underline that thought, I hear Jake on the stairs, then he is in the room, close behind me. “Night, champ,” he says to Logan. Of course, it’s natural he wants to check in with his son, especially tonight, considering everything, but his presence means I can’t lunge for the panic button. Had he, too, suddenly remembered its existence? Was he saying good-night to Logan or was he checking up on me? Stopping me from getting the help I think we need.

  We go downstairs where the Heathcotes are gathered around the kitchen table. It’s un-fucking-believable, but I notice Jennifer’s eyes swivel greedily around the Poggenpohl units, I see her check out the expensive worktops, the enormous state-of-the-art fridge. I see her nostrils widen a fraction as envy flares. She is envious of me? A woman who has a child bound and gagged, abducted, missing, lost. I can’t begin to understand her. I have always tried to understand people. Not because I’m intrinsically kind or think that I value empathy any more than anyone else. It’s simply an urge, an instinct, to get to the bottom of human behavior. I thought I’d be safer then, if I understood people, but people are infinitely unknowable, mysterious. They have smiley talk, but give hard stares. They kiss you, but hurt you. Tell you they love you when, really, they hate you.

  “Where are t
he security men you hired?” I demand.

  Jake glances at his watch. “They’ve knocked off now. Gone home.”

  “But I want someone here, right now, outside our door, outside Logan’s bedroom door. Twenty-four hours.”

  “This house is perfectly secure. You know it is, and anyway we need to keep a lid on this, like the kidnappers said. Security guys would quickly pick up on the problem.” His words are infuriating. Too considered and reasonable in light of what is going on. I glare at him, but then my heart swells and slackens. I see that he’s not indifferent. There’s a milky white sheen on his skin that puts me in mind of meat sweating on a buffet on a hot day; he is trembling. He is more stressed and terrified than I have ever seen him before—we just don’t agree on how this should be managed. Naturally, we don’t. We agree on so little nowadays. The problem is Jake is far too used to getting his own way now. But this is not the same as going along with a choice of car or even house or school. This is a matter of life and death. Doesn’t he see we need all the help we can get? Jake asks, “Anything, Fred?” Fred reaches into his pocket and hands Jake my phone. Jake checks my phone, presumably for another message.

  “We need to get her home!” I cry, frustrated. “We need help. I want you to call those security guys,” I blurt. “Someone, do something!”

  “They are basically glorified bouncers. They can’t do much in a situation like this.”

  “But that’s not what you said when we first employed them. You said...” I trail off. What is the point? Jake is not consistent. I know that much by now.

  “Shall I put the kettle on?” offers Fred. No one answers him. “Coffee then?” Fred starts to play around with the Krups coffee machine. He doesn’t have to take our orders, knowing who drinks cappuccinos, lattes or Americanos. We all know that—and so much more—about one another. Jake places my phone in the middle of the kitchen table. I suppose he thinks I’ve accepted his commands and I suppose I have, at least for the moment. If I reach for the phone, they will only grab it from me again. They all seem so clear that not calling the police is the correct thing that I’m becoming confused, overwhelmed. Maybe they are right. Maybe we should follow the kidnappers’ instructions. I don’t know.

  We pull up chairs, sit around the table and stare at the phone. Waiting for it to ring or beep. We look ridiculous in our fancy-dress costumes—Pierrot, Harlequin, a lion, a strong man, a boy pretending to be a strong man. I pull off my cap, but I don’t want to go upstairs to shower and change. What if the kidnappers call and I miss it?

  Fred places the mugs of coffee on the table. I notice only the Heathcotes manage to drink theirs. Fred eats a couple of biscuits, too. Jake and I let our drinks go cold and slick. We don’t reach for a biscuit. The phone does not ring. Jennifer is the first to comment she wants to change out of her fancy dress. She asks if she can borrow something of mine. I agree but don’t go upstairs with her to dig anything out as she’s more than capable of rooting through my wardrobe. I don’t care what she purloins, not anymore. I just can’t leave my phone. She returns thirty minutes later, showered, fresh faced. Men would think she’s not wearing any makeup, but I can tell she’s applied mascara, blusher and even lip gloss. At a time like this. Unbelievable. She’s wearing a denim skirt and a clingy emerald shirt. I know both things were still in a shopping bag on my bedroom floor. I hadn’t hung them up because I bought them for Emily. I just hadn’t got around to putting them in her room. They fit and suit Jennifer. The men and Ridley also shower and change. It comes to my turn. They are all insistent that I’ll feel better if I follow their lead. I think of Emily, wearing a purple leotard and high gold boots. She doesn’t have the comfort of a shower, the relief of slipping into joggers. I refuse to change.

  “You don’t need to be a martyr about this, Lexi. You are not helping her by being uncomfortable yourself,” comments Jake. I don’t respond. I hate it that he doesn’t understand me.

  “How do you think they got my number?” I ask instead.

  “I don’t know, Lexi—who do you give your number to?” Jake stares at me, cold and challenging.

  I flush, although I don’t know why. “Just regular people,” I mutter.

  “People that you help at work?” probes Jennifer.

  “No, I’m careful not to do that.” Toma is the only person I’ve ever helped at the bureau and then given my number to. I don’t tell her that. It isn’t any of her business. None of this is. She shouldn’t even be here.

  “Do you think this might be connected to those desperate people who broke in and stole your laptop?”

  I didn’t tell her about the laptop, so I assume Jake has filled her in on that. Clearly, they are still seeing each other. That doesn’t necessarily mean they are still sleeping together, but it might. It probably does. I find I don’t care. I don’t care where my husband is shoving his dick; I can’t imagine why I thought that him sleeping with someone else was a tragedy. It doesn’t matter to me now. I just want my daughter home. I glance at Ridley. I keep forgetting he is here with us. He probably shouldn’t be. He should be in bed. Sleeping off the party excess or excitedly messaging friends about how much fun he had at the out-of-this-world party, like a normal teenager. Nothing about this is as it is supposed to be. I notice he is sobbing, silently. Tears roll down his face, leaving a snail’s trail of sadness.

  I almost reach across the table and squeeze his hand—he’s just a kid—but can’t bring myself to. This boy crushed my daughter and now my daughter is gone. He is here. Normal things like decency have been wrung out of me. I almost hate him and everyone around the table for being safe and here. I would change places with her in an instant. But he is sobbing, and Emily would want me to comfort him. I make myself behave like a proper person—I lean across the table and pat his arm. However, my gesture doesn’t help. Ridley flinches, withdraws from me. “You should try to get some sleep, Ridley. You can take a bed in one of the spare rooms. I think they are all made up.”

  He shakes his head. “I won’t be able to sleep. I’d rather be here.” I nod, respecting his decision. I keep checking the wall clock and my watch; they agree. Time is passing. The last time any of us saw Emily was at about eight thirty. It’s now three in the morning. I don’t want them to, but my thoughts start to traverse down dark and disturbing paths.

  You are a winner.

  Four words and the whole world shifts. I can’t find her.

  Just four more words. But they are the ones that shove me from fortunate to damned. She was there in front of me. All hopeful and sulky and glorious and angry, and then she was gone. It’s strange that the good news—the winning—took time to sink in. This horror I accept instantly. I’ve been waiting for it. I wish more than anything that she was here by my side being annoyed by my clinginess and what she calls righteousness. Resenting me for being her buzzkill.

  I should have known that we’d pay. I did know. I would have paid in any other way. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I want to be doing something, to bring her home. I want to be out there looking for her. It’s not enough to just sit and wait, wait and see what happens. I go and dig out Logan’s laptop, start to Google the procedure and statistics around kidnapping. It’s a mistake. Like most things on the internet, facts are drowned by hysteria and cruelty, worst-case scenarios. I try not to click and wander down the rabbit warrens of despair and dread, but I can’t help myself. I feel sick, faced with videos of men in hoodies, men on CCTV cameras, men driving vans into the distance. I am immobilized by the fuzzy, faded pictures of smiley young girls never recovered; instead destined to stay forever in school uniforms, not allowed to grow up, grow old, to live. I see pictures of heartbroken parents at press conferences, at tombstones. My eyes slide from one article to the next, but I am too much of a coward to read anything properly. Words morph on and off the screen; like ants at a picnic, they won’t stay still. Often the word “kidnapper” is linked with the w
ords “teen” and “murder.” The Wikipedia definition—the unlawful carrying away and confinement of a person against their will—punches me in the gut. Carrying away where? Confined where?

  I read that the police consider the first few hours often to be the most vital in offering up clues in a missing person case. Again, I am swamped with doubt that Jake’s decision not to involve the police is the right one, but I don’t challenge him. I don’t trust myself—or anyone, come to that. If the kidnappers hurt her because they somehow find out I’ve contacted the police, I’d never forgive myself. How would I live with that? Soon they will send a message. They will ask for money. We can give money. That, we can do. I Google the word “ransom.” It’s a silly habit of our time. Something is wrong—a rash, weening problems, sleeping patterns—we Google it. Something is unknown—school catchment areas, inoculation guidelines, dates for the Topshop sale—Google it.

  Someone is lost—what then?

  I Google it. I am hoping for some advice on how to handle this impossible, unimaginable situation because I’m clueless, alone. Maybe we all are, trapped in a terrible space where there are only digital responses, digital solutions. Pixels on a screen, placed there by strangers. I want to talk to my husband, but I don’t have the words. I want to talk to my friends, but I don’t have any of those. In a way, the search does help. I am stunned that the first thing that comes up is adverts for companies that insure people against ransom. I feel a peculiar, uncomfortable relief that we are not alone and yet a profound, distinct terror that this is a business. Hostage situations, kidnapping and extortion occur often enough for people to insure themselves against it. I have insurance for accidents in the home, for luggage lost on holiday. I should have known things were bigger now. I should have protected her more. “Jake, did you know that there are companies that work to cover monies lost to ransom?” I call through to where he is still sitting in the kitchen.