think he’s
refused to pay the ransom. That’d be just like Dad. I can just imagine him
thinking it’s all a joke, or a set-up. That I’ve kidnapped myself. Yeah,
that’s it. Mixed-up rich kid with semi-famous father, desperate for attention,
sets up his own kidnapping to put one over on his dad.
Shit.
I’m
so
hungry.
There’s a bible in the bedside
cabinet. Last night I got so bored I picked it up and started leafing through it. Then I
realized that I wasn’t
that
bored, and I put it back in the drawer.
Each room has one. I’ve checked. Bible
in the top drawer, blank notebook and pen in the middle.
This
notebook,
this
pen.The drawers have locks and there’s a
little key on the top of each cabinet. Six keys, six notebooks, six pens, six rooms, six
plates …
Six?
No, I haven’t worked it out yet.
The notebooks are good quality –
black-leather covers, fresh white pages. Blank pages. Lots of blank pages. I don’t
know why, but that bothers me.
The pen’s a Uni-ball Eye, Micro,
black. Waterproof/fade-proof. Made by the Mitsubishi Pencil Co. Ltd.
Just in case you’re interested.
It’s quarter to nine now.
The lights have been on for forty-five
minutes.
Last night I spent some time sharpening the
broken plastic fork. I only had my fingernails and teeth to work with, but I think I did
a pretty good job. It doesn’t look like much, and I don’t think I could kill
anyone with it, but it’s sharp enough to do some damage.
If I’m right, the lift will come down
in five minutes.
It did. Only this time it wasn’t
empty.
There was a little girl in there.
When I first saw her, my heart iced over
and my brain went numb. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t
speak, couldn’t do anything. It was too much to take in. She was sitting in the
wheelchair, the same wheelchair I’d arrived in, kind of slumped to one side, with
her eyes closed and her mouth halfopen. Her hair was all messed up and
knotted, and her clothes were crumpled and covered in dust. Tear stains darkened her
cheeks.
I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t
know what to feel. Didn’t know anything. All I could do was stand there with the
sharpened plastic fork in my hand, staring like an idiot at this poor little girl.
Then my heart grew hot and a rage of
emotions welled up inside me. Anger, pity, fear, panic, hatred, confusion, despair,
sadness, madness. And I wanted to scream and shout and tear the walls down. I wanted to
hit something, hit someone. Hit
him
. How could he
do
this? How could
any
one do this? She’s just a girl, for God’s sake. She’s
just a
little
girl
.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and
let it out slowly.
Think, I told myself.
Think.
I opened my eyes and studied the girl,
looking for signs of life. Her eyes were still closed, her lips not moving.
Breathe … please breathe.
I waited, watching.
After a long ten seconds or so, her head
twitched, she gave a little gulp, and her eyes fluttered open. I shook the paralysis
from my body, hurried over to the lift, and wheeled her out.
Her name’s Jenny Lane. She’s
nine years old. She was on her way to school this morning when a policeman stopped her
in the street and told her that her mum had been in an accident.
‘How did you know he was a
policeman?’ I asked her.
‘He had a uniform and a hat. He showed
me his badge. He said he’d take me to the hospital.’
She started crying again then. She was in a
terrible state. Streaming tears, shocked eyes, shaking like a leaf. She had a slight
graze on her lip, and her knee was cut and bruised. Worst of all, she was breathing
really fast. Short, sharp, gaspy little breaths. It was scary. I felt completely
helpless. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with little girls in
shock. I just don’t
know
stuff like that.
After I’d got her out of the lift, I
took her to the bathroom and waited outside while she got herself cleaned up. Then I got
her a drink of water and took her back to my