I sink to my knees, suddenly too tired to stand, and stare at it for a while. I lose myself in a daydream where, miraculously, there is a signal, and I call for help. I’ll sob into the phone, so relieved, and tell them who I am and where I’m being kept. Then I’ll stay on the line to the calming, soothing voice of the operator as I wait for the police. They’ll storm the house, kick down the door and pull me from the basement and out into the garden. I’ll cry, of course, but the relief – god, the relief – I’ll ring my parents and they’ll sob, and I’ll sob. Dad will jump in the car with Mum and speed all the way and when they arrive, we’ll fall into a tangle of relieved, grateful tears and warm, tight hugs. Dad will say, ‘It’s alright, Chuck. You’re alright.’ And we’ll drink hot tea and, wedged between the safe pillars of my family, I’ll watch as Jack is put in handcuffs and dragged roughly into the back of a police car, set for a life in prison.
I don’t know how long it will be before Jack returns and now my need to destroy has faded, logic has resurfaced; I can’t live in this hideous mess and even if I wanted to, Jack wouldn’t let me. He’s a neat freak. I look down at the phone lying limply in my lap and draw in a shaky breath, then I stand on shaky legs and start putting the room back together with shaky hands. Once the bed is made, I carefully hide the Nokia beneath the mattress and even though I’m not religious, I pray Jack doesn’t find it.
One of the drawers from the dresser is in pieces; splintered wood and nails are strewn across the floor. I pick one of the nails up – it’s about three inches long and almost as thick as my pinkie. I don’t have any shoes – Jack says I don’t need them – so I am grateful I saw it before I stepped on it.
I freeze.
It’s the closest I’ve found to a weapon in my confinement. I hear Jack’s velvety voice: How far will you go? Not all the way because I couldn’t stab Jack with it – I don’t think I could stab anyone – it’s too personal, you’d have to get too close; nevertheless, an idea is crystallising. I see Macaulay Culkin placing a nail upright on the stairs to fell the home invaders. I see the fleshy sole of Daniel Stern’s foot being pierced by it and hear his scream as he tumbles. Every Christmas, I watch Home Alone with my family; we bicker over who sits where and which snacks are best and whose turn it is to make the hot chocolate, but, as soon as the first shot of the glittering McCallister house brightens our screen, we’re all quiet.
I know what I must do.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
67 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
At first, I take four nails and place them sharp end up on the stairs but, deciding this may be too obvious, I leave only two. I hope it’s enough. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if he realises I’ve set out to maim him in an attempt to liberate myself. I walk up and down the stairs a hundred times, trying to work out the very best place to position them to ensure his foot will come down on it. It’s difficult, my feet are smaller than his and our tread is different but, after playing around for a few hours, I’m confident I’ve got them just right; I’ve seen him descend these stairs often enough. If I fail this time and he doesn’t notice, I’ll just try again.
The room is as tidy as I can make it – two of the five drawers in the dresser are broken so I’ve wedged them in as best I can; if the place were still a wreck, it might alarm Jack and he’d approach with caution. For my plan to work, I need him to be as unsuspecting as possible.
Jack’s never gone longer than five days – it’s been four since his last visit, which means he’s due any minute, so I have taken the Nokia from its hiding place beneath the mattress and slipped it into the waistband of the boxers I’m wearing. If I escape – when I escape, I’ll have it with me. As much as I hate when he’s here, my stomach churns with the fear he’s dead – a car crash, a fall, a sudden heart attack. It’s strange wanting so badly for someone to suffer, but being so completely reliant on their safety.
At the click of the key turning in the lock, I get to my feet, feeling for the Nokia in the waistband of the boxers to make sure I haven’t lost it. As always, Jack opens the door, then locks it before descending, but I don’t hear the jangle of keys as he slips them into his pocket, which means they’re still in his hand. What I do hear though is Seefer; she meows loudly, announcing her arrival. A cat carrier comes into view. I’m surprised, I didn’t think he’d actually fetch her.
Holding my breath, I watch as Jack misses the first nail I’d positioned on the second step and I’m pleased to see he’s wearing trainers – they have a much thinner sole than his boots. His footsteps are steady; a hammer against cloth. My eyes flicker to the second nail – my last hope – but I quickly look away from it and lock my gaze onto his. He smiles. Distracted, he doesn’t see the nail. His foot comes down on it with such surety. It’s like a magic trick – the nail disappears beneath his trainer, into his trainer. He screams so loudly, I cover my ears against it. The cat carrier tumbles down the stairs, landing at an awkward angle on the bottom step. Jack lifts his impaled foot – too fast – off balance. He tumbles too. There’s a sickening crack as his head hits the flagstones. He lies motionless at the bottom.
Go, go, go.
I lurch forward, barely hesitating before I leap over him, and scrabble up the stairs. The keys are halfway up, and I feel weak with relief. Grabbing them, I race to the top. Then, with trembling hands, I force the key into the lock. Mercifully, it clicks open and I throw the door wide.
At the sound of an off-key screech, I whip around. Seefer!
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I look at Jack, still unmoving on the ground.
Piss me off and I’ll kill it.
I can’t leave her behind.
I imagine him holding her down by the scruff of her neck, taking a knife and stabbing it into her tiny body over and over.
I can’t. I can’t.
Stumbling back down the stairs, I bend to grab the cat carrier. Seefer yowls, wildly twisting and turning in her cage. I dart a glance at Jack. I can’t see his face but when I look down, his white trainer is slowly turning red. A burbling belch of bile rises as I picture the nail splitting his skin, ripping through flesh and sinew. Seefer hisses, drawing my attention. I clasp the carrier handle and turn, jogging back up the stairs.
I am thrown forward. I whip my head to the side just in time to avoid breaking my nose. Air whooshes from my lungs and I gasp, struggling to draw in more. The carrier slips from my fingers and clunks down the steps. Seefer yowls again. The hand that has hold of my ankle squeezes and drags me down. My grasping, desperate fingers fail to take a hold. Then my knees are on the cold flagstone but the hard edge of the last step cuts into my stomach as Jack forces a foot onto my back.
The Nokia has slipped from the waistband of my boxers and lies on the step above me. I throw my hand out to take it, but Jack beats me to it. He takes the phone and smashes it against the banister. I scream for him to stop. I try to claw my way up the stairs, out of this basement.
A large shaft of light from the open door is our spotlight. But this is his stage and he is the star. He flips me onto my back and hauls me across the floor. He straddles me. Incandescent with rage, his hands wrap around my neck. He squeezes. This is not a warning. Seefer is screeching and Jack’s eyes are bulging.
‘You fucking bitch,’ he snarls.
Saliva drips from his mouth and into my eyes. I blink and blink and blink.