One Way or Another: A Novel (11 page)

“Go on inside,” she said.

I did not dare to disobey her.

I walked into that house, and once again, into my fate.

18

ANGIE

Mehitabel had gone. I was alone in that great dark house.

A faint light came from a half-open door leading into a room at the very end of the hall. Afraid almost to breathe, I heard the crackle of a fire, smelled the crisp sweet scent of the wood, heard the complete silence of the rest of the house. My pretty blue-green chiffon dress moved slightly in a draft coming from above. Goose bumps rose on my arms and instinctively I clasped them across my chest, a hand on each shoulder as though to warm myself. I turned to look at the door, thinking of escape, but again, to where? The question seemed to hover over my head in bright lights like on a theater awning, only this was no play and I was the victim, not the actress.

Courage. The word flashed through my mind and again I remembered my mother. She would expect me to be courageous, to take whatever was coming at me on the chin, to fight back. But I was broken. I had been raped by Ahmet and molested by that vicious woman. I shuddered, remembering her smile, her scent.… Another memory stirred and I remembered the bottle of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue and my need to perfume myself, the foolish need to feel like a normal woman.

Courage. The word still hovered. I wondered how to find what it meant to be courageous, what I should do now, what I could possibly do to help myself.

Then I heard Ahmet say, “Angie, come on in, why don’t you? It’s so much more comfortable in here, warmer too. I have a nice fire going and a very good bottle of red opened long enough for it to breathe.”

I was not shocked that it was Ahmet, I had almost expected it. And it wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Again I obeyed. I walked to the door, pushed it wider, saw Ahmet comfortable in a red leather chair, the bottle of wine on a small table beside him, his feet in monogrammed black velvet slippers propped on a dark ottoman.

He rose from his chair and stood in front of the blazing fire, smiling at me. Sparks from the fire flew all around him and I couldn’t help thinking it was as though they were from the flames of hell itself, because he was my fate. Whatever he wanted to do with me he had the power to do it.

Courage. My mother’s word rang again in my ear. I knew I must face him on his own terms, after all, the only thing left that he could do was actually to kill me and it suddenly struck me that Ahmet was not the man to do that. He might employ a killer but I knew instinctively he would not do the deed himself. The soft chiffon folds of the dress flowed around my bare legs as I walked toward him.

His eyes lit with a mocking smile. “Bravo, Angie,” he said. “I like women who do not show their fear.”

“I am no longer afraid of you,” I said, because there was, after all, nothing left to fear.

“Come, sit here, why don’t you?”

He indicated the ottoman on which his feet had rested. I did as he asked, clamping my knees together, smoothing the dress down in the ladylike fashion my mother had taught me. He poured the wine and offered me a glass. I didn’t want it but, since I had no choice, I took it. His fingers brushed mine and he gave me that smile again that told me he knew me well, knew everything there was to know about me, the way I had felt under his probing hands, the faint aromatic tang of my body under his lips. And I knew he knew what I was thinking, that I was also remembering the way his body had felt on mine, and I blushed.

“You are quite beautiful tonight, Angie,” he said, going back to his red leather chair. “Like a pretty feline, a smooth little pussycat in that dress.”

His eyes still mocked me and I glanced away.

“No,” he said loudly. “Look up.” He was giving me an order. “Look at me! I want you to remember this night, and all the nights that went before. I want your body to remember me as well as your mind. Fair’s fair, Angie. I remember you perfectly. I remember that first time when you couldn’t wait for me to put my hands on you, to put my cock in you, and I remember how much you liked it.”

“You enjoyed it,” I said and wished I had not because it showed that of course I remembered. Then despite myself I added, “More than me.”

Ahmet shook his head, tut-tutting. “Angie, Angie, you must learn. It’s ‘more than I.’ Not more than me.” He laughed and took a gulp of his wine. “Perhaps I will have to get you a tutor, teach you the proper use of the English language.”

“You mean the way you had to be taught?” I don’t know how I knew, but I was right. I’d struck a sore spot and the color rose from his neck up his face, an angry red that made me know he was on the verge of hitting me. Courage, I told myself again and raised my chin, staring contemptuously at him.

“You are only up from the streets yourself,” I went on, unable to stop now I had started. “You are just a poor boy made good, a boy who didn’t learn the niceties of life at his mother’s knee. This good wine you are drinking you had to learn about, just like the rest of us poor folk did. Your own mother didn’t teach you, that’s for sure.”

His fist flew toward me, smacking back my head. I suddenly knew what was meant by seeing stars. They danced before my eyes like mini space rockets while the pain seared through my jaw and wine spilled from my dropped glass all over my pretty chiffon dress and the carpet.

“Mehitabel!” Ahmet’s voice roared through the room, sending more mini rockets through my head. “Mehitabel,” he roared again and, as if by magic, there she was standing next to me. I caught her looking at me, taking in the spilled wine, Ahmet’s furious red face, my own strange calmness.

“Take her away!” Ahmet roared. “Get her out of my sight. I will deal with her later.”

As Mehitabel took my arm and led me away I heard Ahmet’s beautiful wineglass crash against the limestone fireplace, and then I thought I heard what sounded like a sob, a deep, terrible sob that came from unknown depths. Of course I knew I must be wrong and it was only the sound of my own sobs I was hearing. Wasn’t it?

19

ANGIE

I did not know how much later it was when I woke. It was dark, I had no idea where I was. I cried out for help, knowing it was foolish, ridiculous, nobody would help me ever again. If I was ever to escape from this dark place I must be cleverer than them, smarter, more resourceful, I’d need to be friggin’ biophysicist material, a nuclear specialist. In that case I didn’t stand a chance! Brains and ingenuity were not in my makeup. I only got through high school by cramming for exams the night before. I had a good memory and did well enough to pass, but did I learn anything? If I had would I have been a greeter in a glorified steakhouse with other women’s husbands giving me the hopeful eye, simply because I was there and they could? I guess they thought I was worth a try, and who could blame them. And then the one time I succumbed—well, that’s not quite true, it wasn’t the only time, but my first time with a “really rich” man—look what happened to me.

I choked back the sob in my throat. I was definitely not going to cry. I was going to get out of here, that’s what I was gonna do.

I touched my jaw gingerly. It was sore as hell where Ahmet had punched me, probably black and blue and purple by now. Rage rose in my throat instead of sobs. The bastard. I would get him, I surely would. And that witch Mehitabel. One way or another.

I was lying back on a sofa; I had no recollection of how I had gotten there. Somebody had put my feet up, straightened out my dress. I knew it must have been her; that woman radiated evil even when she was smiling at you. It was there, in the back of her eyes, a subplot lying in wait for you.

In real life, which is what my own life used to be, I wondered whether Mehitabel would have been considered normal. Did she live in a regular apartment like a normal woman, maybe even in a grand apartment seeing how she was working for a billionaire? Did she have a family? It was hard even to believe some woman had given birth to her. Evil is born, it says so in the Bible. At least I think it does. And to me, Mehitabel personifies evil. I know that she will stop at nothing.

I swung my legs off the sofa, saw I was wearing shoes. Chanel, black with cream-color toes and kitten heels. I would never have bought those shoes, not in a million years; I wore stilettos for work and biker boots off duty, and my old pink fluffy slippers all the time at home. It was the memory of those slippers that finally reduced me to silent tears.

They had to be silent because I was afraid if Mehitabel heard me she would come swooping through that door, maybe this time with a knife in her hand or a gun, ready to finish me off. I told myself to stop the crying. I told myself to get up, go look out the window, find a way out. I was afraid to check the door and see if it was unlocked because she—or someone else—might be on guard, waiting for me.

It was so dark outside all I could see was myself reflected in the window, the new me because I certainly no longer resembled who I used to be. Bald, with bruised eyes and jaw, emaciated in the too-big silk dress and the Chanel shoes, I was so stunned by my appearance I no longer wanted to cry. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted revenge. I wanted to get my own back. But I was helpless, trapped in this lavish room with a door I dared not step through and a window that led only into the blackest night ever known to man.

The window was the old-fashioned type that lifted upward. I tried the latch and found it unlocked. Could my abductors have forgotten something this important? Or was it a trap? Were they allowing me to escape only to come after me, enjoying the chase again, with me as the prey and their hounds baying at my heels? I stared for several minutes at that latch. It was all that lay between me and freedom.

I took a deep breath, slid it back. The window moved easily under my hands. Again I stared suspiciously at it, then beyond, at that overwhelming blackness. There was no sound, not even of a small creature rustling through the grass. The night air slid into the room, so humid it brought drops of sweat onto my skin. I was on the ground floor. A small paved terrace lay immediately outside. Still, I hesitated, torn between the known and the unknown.

Of course I had no choice. If I was going to live, escape was my only chance.

It was easier than I’d thought and a moment later I was on that terrace, breathing the magical air of freedom. I pulled myself together, glanced right, then left. There was only the paved area fronting the house, which was in complete darkness. Before me I could just make out a flight of stone steps. I knew this must be the only way. Yet still I hesitated.

20

ANGIE

I had so wanted my freedom that now I was giddy with it. Unable to put one foot in front of the other, I stood frozen on that narrow terrace, surveying the night until gradually shapes began to form from it: a balustrade with stone urns balanced at each end; thin spears of weed poking between the pavers; a wavering path just a step or two down that led who knew where, only that it was away from here and could be my salvation.

I was suddenly filled with excited anticipation, I could already taste that freedom, almost see myself back with people again, real people who would listen to the story of my abduction, of attempted murder, of molestation and drugs; people who would look at my shorn scalp and the scar and wonder, as I did, that I was still alive to tell my tale.

Yet, “But why?” was what I knew they would, so rightly, ask. And would they believe me when I told them it was a sick man’s fantasy, a sociopath with power and money and a famous name they would all know, who had done this to me for his own enjoyment? I could never tell the true story because, after all, I would be seen as just another young woman on the make, out for a quick buck, and with no way to back up her silly lie.

I was on my own then. I shrugged, or was it a shiver that ran through me? Here I was, facing life or death on my own. Same as always. We lonely girls are like that; all smiles and sleek hair and high heels, except when we are alone, which is almost always how we end up anyway.

It was then, I swear, I heard my mother’s voice coming at me out of that blackness, saying she had not raised me to talk like that, to think like that, act like that. I was a fine young woman, working for a living, keeping hope alive for that fairy-tale ending. My mother had been so sure of that ending. I wished I was and that I had not been so foolish.

The empty grass meadow lay in front of me. My eyes had become more used to the dark and I could see here and there, the dips where water trickled endlessly. So, okay, I would avoid those areas, keep to the grassy bits.

With one hand over my heart, the other clutching the shoes, I took that first step forward. I held my breath, expecting my bare foot to sink into water, but no, there was a firmness there. I put my other foot forward, rested my weight on both feet, on the tuft of grass. It held. It was safe. It was not marsh after all, just a long meadow with here and there those strange tiny flickering lights.

A breeze sprang up out of nowhere. More of a rough wind, cold with a sighing edge to it, as though the earth itself was moaning. Or some person. I froze again. I told myself it could only be the wind, there was no one out there, no killer waiting with a knife, no Mehitabel.

I stood for minutes more, Chanel shoes in hand, dress blowing against me, my naked scalp prickling uneasily: I felt eyes on me, watching my every move, waiting for what I might do next. Panic fueled a scream that I strangled immediately; I must be silent, not make a sound. They couldn’t see me. Could they?

Suddenly, though I didn’t want to cry, tears sprang from under my closed lids, bringing the memory of the azure Aegean Sea pressing on my eyes as I was drowning, making me ask myself what I was doing here, how had I got here? I was just a simple girl from nowhere who wanted nothing from anybody. Until I was picked out by a psychopath looking for girls exactly like me to deliver his drug money.