For a moment she’s completely nonplussed. ‘Oh, you mean the deus ex machina? It’s from Greek tragedy – it’s when a writer gets his plot into such a complete horlicks the only way to fix it is to send in a god.’
Gislingham grins. ‘Sounds like a great idea. We could do with one of those ourselves.’
‘I thought we already had one,’ she says drily. ‘Under deep cover as Detective Inspector Adam Fawley.’
Gislingham laughs out loud this time, then puts the car in gear. The back of his hand brushes hers.
Just for a moment.
***
I’m writing this because I want everyone to know. If I die down here – if I never get out – I want people to know what he did to me.
I was on my way to look at a bedsit. One of the students had dropped out so they had a room free for a few months and it had to be better than where I was before. Only I’d managed to break my heel crossing the road so I was sitting there, on the wall, trying to fix it, when he came out. I thought he was going to ask me to get off his wall but he just looked at my shoe and said he had some glue that could fix it. It would only take a minute, he said. And I looked at him and he smiled. He had a tie on, I remember that. He didn’t look like a psycho. He looked nice. Kind. Like someone’s uncle. So I said OK and I followed him into the house.
He said he had to fetch the glue from the shed, and he’d just made some tea and would I like some. That’s how he must have done it. The tea.
I thought it tasted a bit weird [material illegible]
. . . lying face down on the floor. I started yelling but no one came. He never came. And eventually I needed to pee and I started crying because I could feel my jeans getting soaked and it was so horrible. I don’t know how long it was before I worked out I could crawl on my knees. I kept banging into things in the dark but I found the bed and the toilet and the boxes of junk. It all smells of old people. I think this room must be underground because it’s so cold all . . .
[one sheet illegible]
. . . heard him outside. There was the sound of a key and then footsteps on the stairs and then a light went on. I could see it under the door. And then I heard him out there, breathing. Breathing and listening. I stayed really still and in the end he went away. But the light under the door is still there.
He’s going to come down again, isn’t he.
I don’t want him to rape me. I’ve never done it before and I don’t want it to be him that’s the first.
Why doesn’t anyone come?
[two sheets illegible]
. . . here again. He had water and he let me drink some, but most of it went down my top. I said I was hungry too but he said I have to be nice to him first. I tried to hit him and he slapped me. He said I would play nice in the end because I wouldn’t eat until I did. I spat out the water at him and he said suit yourself. You can drink out of the toilet for all I care. You’ll come round, you vicious little bitch. You all do.
I keep wondering if anyone is looking for me. Those people at the bedsit won’t be bothered. Mum doesn’t know where I am and probably wouldn’t care if she did. She’d probably say it served me right for being so stupid. That’s what she always says.
I could die in here and no one would know
I don’t want to die
Please don’t let . . .
[three sheets damaged]
He raped me
He RAPED me
I don’t know how long ago because I’ve been lying here just crying and crying. Please, if you read this, don’t let him get away with it. Make him pay for what he did.
He brought down more water but I think there was something in it again because I started to feel strange. As if I knew what was going on but I couldn’t do anything about it. One minute he was sitting there smiling at me and the next he was taking my knickers off and then he was touching me with his horrible wrinkly hands and putting his fingers in me and asking if I liked it. He didn’t untie me – I think he likes it that I’m tied up. He did it to me on my back then turned me over and did it to me again. And all the time I had my face in the dirt and it was hurting like he was ripping me inside.
I was sick, afterwards. There was blood running down my legs.
But he left the water and some food
And he put the light on
[several sheets missing]
. . . how long I’ve been here but I can’t keep count because he took my watch and he took my phone. My period came today so it must be at least three weeks. I told him I needed things for it and he just brought me bog roll. He wouldn’t even give me my knickers back, the mean bastard. He says they’re dirty. And in any case he likes looking at me without them. Calls it my ‘vagina’.
He sat there and watched while I stuck the paper between my legs. He had a strange look on his face. As if he liked the blood. As if it made it even better in his twisted screwed up mind. He said it was a pity we couldn’t have sex while I was bleeding but he could do it to me from behind if I want. It’s like he thinks we have sort of a relationship. I didn’t think anything could make this nightmare worse, but that does.
[several sheets damaged]
. . . nicer to me now. He says we can be a family and he’s always wanted a child and he hopes it will be a boy. He let me have my pants back and he’d even tried to wash them. He lets me have the light on too. And more food. But when I said I needed to see a doctor he laughed in a really nasty way and said I was in the right place. Then when I asked again he said women in the 19th century had babies in the fields and went straight back to work. That I was young and strong and he’d look after me. Me and the baby.
But he must have been angry with me because he turned the light off again after that. I lay here in the dark. Feeling his kid in me. Eating me from the inside.
[one or more sheets missing]
It’s lying there now looking at me. When it cries its face crumples up and goes red. He told me I had to feed it but I turned my back on him. He wanted to have it – he can feed it. He got milk and managed to get the kid to drink some.
He took the dirty bedding away and gave me new sheets. He kept saying he’d made sure everything was clean and hygienic and I said I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I died. Not any more. And he said I had to live for the baby’s sake and I just turned my face to the wall and cried.
He said we were lucky I’m so young and the labour was so easy. And I said ‘Lucky? Lucky to be kept prisoner down here? Lucky to be raped day after day?’ And he said it’s not like that and I know it, and I need to behave myself. That he’s been lenient because I was pregnant but things are going to have to change now.
He says I’ve got to look after the baby and he’ll leave me alone if I do so it’s in my interests. I tell him to take it upstairs and look after it himself but he won’t. He says it’s mine. Mine and his. He says it’s called Billy.
I’m not going to give it a name
Not down here
Not in the dark
He’s looking at me now. The baby. He has blue eyes. Dark hair just like mine. I’m trying to think of him as mine. As just mine and nothing to do with that horrible old pervert.
He doesn’t cry much. He just lies there on the blanket looking at me. It’s over three months now. The old man is still being ‘nice’ to me. I get better food. Tampons. He even came back with some clothes. He must have got them in a charity shop but they could have been worse. He got some clothes for the kid too. A T-shirt and some onesies.
Perhaps having the baby will be a good thing in the end. Because he can’t keep a baby down here forever, can he. What if it got sick? He won’t let it die. He doesn’t care about me but he won’t let anything happen to the baby.