Stolen (14 page)

“I’m their daughter.”

“So?”

“I can.”

You wiped the brush against your shorts, cleaning it. “Face it, Gem, they loved work and expensive things and influential friends more than you. They only loved you when you acted like them.”

“That’s crap.”

You raised an eyebrow. “They missed that awards night at your school so they could pick up a new car instead.”

“I wasn’t getting an award.”

“But you still had to go, and everyone else’s parents were there.”

“So were you, by the sounds of it.”

“Course.” You shrugged. You put tiny green dots on the base of your big toe. “But I can understand why they were like that. They just wanted recognition; they wanted to fit in … it’s what most people want.”

“Except freaks like you,” I spat back.

Your eyes flashed. “I want freedom,” you said simply. “You don’t get freedom in your parents’ lives, you just get fucked.” The veins were pulsing in your throat. You swallowed, slowly, watching me. “I saw things you didn’t see, remember?” you said quietly, your fingers tight around your paintbrush. “I heard conversations you never heard.”

I slammed my hands over my ears. “You’re trying to poison me,” I whispered. “Trying to tell me you know my life better than I do.”

“Maybe I do. Shall I tell you about it?” You rose, your face rigidly smooth. “First, I know your parents want to move away, without you … your mum talked to your dad about it. She said you could move into one of your school’s dorms.”

“That’s not true,” I whispered.

“OK then, what about Ben?”

“What about him?”

“Anna knew how you felt about him, she didn’t like it … she didn’t trust you because of it.”

“No.”

“And Josh Holmes?”

My breath caught in surprise.

“I know exactly what he wanted to do to you, how far he wanted to go…. I saw him follow you around, saw his creepy little text messages.”

“You’re lying.”

You held my gaze. “Haven’t I been right so far?”

I took a couple of steps backward until I felt the wall behind me. I steadied myself against it. That was the second time you’d mentioned Josh.

“He liked you, you know. I mean
really
liked you. He told Anna how much he wanted you.”

“You followed him, too?”

“I followed everyone.” You turned away, went back to your painting. “You didn’t ever have to worry about Josh, though. Not really. I would have smashed his brains in before he’d even opened his fly.”

I shook my head, thoughts reeling all over the place. I wished you had smashed Josh’s brains in … then you would’ve been in prison, Josh would’ve been in the hospital, and I would’ve been at home. Perfect. I sank down against the wall, trying to work it all out. I still wanted to think that you were talking shit. But all this, all this you knew, it added up. I closed my eyes, wanting to shut you out forever.

Then I thought of something. I wondered if anyone had suspected Josh when I went missing. He might have been the obvious suspect, although I doubt anyone would think he’d go to all the trouble you did to steal me. Perhaps he was interviewed, the police thinking he was a friend of mine, or a boyfriend. Perhaps they’d arrested him. I shuddered: Even though he was thousands of miles away, thinking about Josh still gave me the creeps … thinking about him playing the concerned friend in particular.

“Where did you live?” I asked.

“Kelvin Grove.”

“You lived in the shelter?”

Your eyes flicked to mine. “Perhaps, for a time.”

“That’s near where Josh lives.”

“I know.” You didn’t look up when you spoke, just kept focusing on painting. “Do you think he should have teamed up with me?” You laughed a little. “He might have had more luck catching you with me around.”

“Did you watch him?”

“Of course.”

“Talk to him?”

“Once.”

“And …?”

I stiffened, despite myself, anxious about what you might have said, or done.

“I said I was your guardian angel.”

“You actually spoke to him, face-to-face?” My mind was racing overtime, thinking that if Josh had seen you, if he could describe you to the police, then that would have to be a lead. They could draw up one of those criminal sketches and stick your face on BBC’s
Crimewatch.
They’d find you, somehow. They’d find us.

I thought about Josh a little more carefully, tried to figure him out. He was pretty gutless, but I didn’t think he was dishonest. He wouldn’t want to be a suspect. But would he come forward? At least he could describe your height, your voice, something. Right then he seemed like my only hope. It was strange to think of someone I hated as an only hope like that.

“They’ll find me, you know,” I said. “Eventually. You won’t keep me forever.”

Your forehead wrinkled a bit and you stopped painting.

“Or maybe you’ll just let me go?” I continued. “Perhaps you’ll get bored of all this?” I tried keeping my voice casual-sounding, trying a different tactic. “You know, I can get help for you, or money. Dad knows people, lots of people … doctors, lawyers …”

You didn’t let me finish. You were up in a second. “You think that’s what I want?” Your voice cracked. Then you pointed the paintbrush at me. “Do your hand now,” you said firmly. It wasn’t a request. You pushed a saucer of brown-earth paint toward me. I saw the pulse in your throat throbbing, your jaw tense. “Paint yourself. Now.”

I moved my head into a tiny shake. “No,” I whispered.

You pressed the paintbrush against my skin. “I want you to draw onto your hand,” you said slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “Just like me.”

When I didn’t move, you leaned toward me and covered my right hand with yours, the paintbrush between your finger and thumb, your grip tight and rough. My hand crumpled like a piece of wastepaper. You were crushing me so hard, as though my skin were jelly. You moved the brush to the back of my left hand. A blob of cold, watery paint fell off onto my skin.

“No,” I said again.

I wrenched my hand from your grasp. I tipped over the brown paint. It bled onto your foot, covering your patterns there.

“You little …”

You raised your arm, biting back the word “bitch.” I shrunk away, watching your fist. But you kicked the fallen saucer, smashing it against the wall. Your eyes were iridescently mad. You wanted to hit me. Instead, you smiled. Or tried to. It was like your eyes and your smile were fighting each other. Anger versus control. Your clenched fist shaking.

“Shall we go for a drive tomorrow?” Your voice was singsongy and falsely happy, but your eyes were hard. “Maybe you can learn to appreciate all this? If you’re lucky, perhaps we’ll catch a camel.”

You didn’t wait for a response. Instead, you left me alone in your painting shed, the spilled paint seeping around me. I sat there, amid that sea of brown, shaking. It was a long time before I followed you back into the house.

There’s a thing murderers always do in horror films: take their victims out on a long drive to a stunning location before they creatively pull them apart. It’s in all the famous films, all the ones with murderers in the middle of nowhere anyway. When you woke me that morning, that day after you’d nearly hit me, I thought about that.

“We’re going on a drive,” you said. “To catch a camel.”

It was very early. I could tell by the pale pinkish-white light and the cool in the air. I got dressed and put the knife into the pocket of my shorts. I could hear you moving and creaking around the house. Then you went outside and started the car. You were surrounding me with noise. I wasn’t used to it. I took my time getting ready. I knew two things: On the one hand, a trip like this could mean a greater opportunity for escape. On the other, it might mean I’d never return.

You were loading the car, packing box after box of food and equipment. I didn’t want you to flip out again, like the night before. So I decided I’d talk.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“The middle of nowhere.”

“I thought this was it.”

“Nah.” You shook your head. “This is just the edge.” I watched you coil a rope into a tight circle and lay it on top of a cooler. You reached for another rope, started to coil that, too. “I’m not leaving you behind, you know.”

You slotted three huge containers of water into the trunk, puffing as you lifted them in.

“How long you going for?”

“Just a day, but you never know out there … could be a sandstorm, fire, anything.” You patted the last container. “Anyway, the camel will need water.”

“I thought they carried that on their back.”

You shook your head. “Fat.”

“What?”

“They carry fat there … strength reserves. They need water like any other animal.”

You tried to slot a bucket into the trunk, but it wouldn’t fit. I pictured myself lying underneath everything: contorted, squashed, suffocated. It made me shake a little. I went around to the front instead. You stuck your head around the side of the car and kept an eye on me.

“This time the front seat’s all yours,” you called.

I opened the door, but I didn’t get in. Inside, there was a musty smell: dirty, stale, and unlived in. Fine red dust covered everything. It looked like the car hadn’t been used for fifty years. It freaked me out, made me wonder whether I’d been in the house with you for longer than I’d thought. The dust had even settled on the scrunched-up chocolate wrappers on the floor. It would be all over my shorts when I got out …
if
I got out.

The key wasn’t in the ignition. I wondered if it was hidden somewhere else in the car, covered in so much dust it was impossible to see. I reached into the car and moved things around, vaguely hoping to find it. I turned the rearview mirror so that I could watch you. You were moving fast, loading things into the trunk, then taking them out and loading them in again in a better position. I could hear you humming something tuneless. You were happy, excited even.

When you’d finished, you came to see me. With your mouth smiling and your eyes crinkled at the corners, you looked a little like how you’d looked at the airport three weeks ago; almost handsome. I had to turn and look at the ground. It made me feel sick then, thinking of you like that.

“I don’t want to go,” I said.

“Why not? I thought you wanted to go someplace else.”

“Not with you. Not with all that stuff you have in the back.”

You leaned against the car. “Well, we could walk it if you like, but we’d be gone for weeks. We’d have to live off the land—that means eating lizards for food and frogs for water. Are you ready for that?”

I shook my head, no escape option there. Besides, the thought of walking with you out in the wilderness was worse than being with you near the house. I remembered what the teachers had told us on field trips:
If you get lost, stay where you are, someone will find you eventually.
Perhaps there was more chance of rescue where I was.

“I thought you wanted to catch a camel,” you tried again.

“No.”

“I want to.”

“Well,
you
go, then.”

You laughed. “I want your beautiful face where I can see it. Come on.”

I stayed where I was. You sighed, and tapped the side of the car as you tried to figure me out.

“You’re not still worried I’m going to hurt you, are you?”

I kept quiet, kept looking at the sand. You walked around the car so that you were standing beside me. “Look, I thought you understood this now…. I’m not going to do anything to you, not like that.” You squatted so you were looking up at me. “Whatever you think of me, your body, well, it’s yours … your choice what to do with it.”

“You wouldn’t let me kill myself.”

“That’s different. You weren’t thinking straight.”

“Because you drugged me!”

“I had to.” You face wrinkled as you looked toward the sun. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize all this would be so hard.”

You were frowning into the horizon. I wanted to ask what you meant by “all this.” I wanted to ask whether you thought kidnapping me would be as easy as a walk in the park. But you turned quickly and stared at me.

“I promise I won’t hurt you,” you said.

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You’ll have to trust me, I guess. You’re with me now, so you kind of have to.”

I avoided your gaze. “I don’t
have
to do anything,” I whispered.

“I know that,” you said gruffly. “But sometime you might want to.” You picked up a handful of sand. “Especially when it will be exciting.” You opened your fist and showed me. “Look, I’ll swear on this that I won’t do anything. How’s that?”

“That’s a crap thing to swear on, a piece of dirt.”

“This sand is older and truer than everything … surely that’s the best thing to swear on.”

I snorted.

“It’s truer than us,” you said softly. You let it go and wiped your hands together. Then you pressed your palms to the earth, and stood. “Come on,” you said. “Let’s find a camel.” You pulled your shirt up and wiped dust from your forehead. Your shirt turned red instantly.

“Are you going near a town?”

“Not nearer than this.”

I swatted at a fly buzzing around my face.

“But I’m going near other things.” You leaned against the car. “Better things.”

Another fly was crawling around my knee, its legs itching my skin. “You won’t do anything to me,” I said quietly.

“Relax. I promise.”

You held open the car door. You grinned your thanks as I stepped in. You shut it after me. My head spun. I wound my window down and a pile of dust fell on me. You got in and wound your window down, too. I shuffled away from you, as far as I could without jumping out.

“I guess you want me to put my seat belt on? Or would you rather just tie me to the seat?”

You shrugged. “Whatever. I’ve got rope in the trunk if you want, lots of it.”

You laughed out loud then. It was a sound you didn’t make very often and a sound that didn’t suit you. It was too abandoned. Perhaps the wildness of it shocked you, too, because it didn’t last very long. You quickly closed your mouth and stared back through the windshield.

You revved the engine and we pulled away from the house, making our own track through the dirt. I could feel the sweat forming in the palms of my hands, at the back of my neck. I rested my head on the door frame and took a big breath of the dry breeze rushing past. My mouth filled with dust.