I walk from room to room in search of another telephone, a land line. There isn’t one, at least not downstairs. I look in the lounge, dining room and hall for bills or envelopes that might have his name and address on. I find nothing. In the lounge there are some novels, and lots of books about plants and gardening. There’s a whole shelf devoted to cacti, the only one in the room that’s full. I pull out a few books at random, in case there’s a name written on the inside cover of one of them, but I find only blank pages.
The framed poster I saw yesterday but only half-remembered shows a map against a bright yellow background, with a country highlighted by a green line. Two cartoon-like arms are reaching out, as if trying to take the country away from its neighbours. ‘Hands off El Salvador ’ is printed in big red letters at the bottom. I assume the green-edged country is El Salvador; I was always hopeless at geography.
The shelves in the lounge make me think about the tiny study upstairs and what I saw in it. Something wrong. A row of Joseph Conrad novels, a row of serious-looking hardbacks with complicated titles, too complicated for me to take in in my panicked state, and then… empty shelves, lots of them. And the desk was completely bare. No computer on it, no pens, no coaster or roll of sellotape, nothing. Who has a desk without a computer on it?
The dining room… I race back down the hall. One whole wall is covered in shelves, good quality ones, probably oak. All empty. Feeling cold all over, I run to the kitchen, pull open the six narrow drawers beneath the work-surface. I find some cutlery in one, but apart from that, nothing. If someone opened my kitchen drawers at home they’d find crayons, unpaid parking tickets, string, aspirins-just about everything.
I force my mind back to the grand tour, as he called it. In the bedrooms upstairs: no lamps, no rugs, nothing on the window sill. No photographs, clocks, pictures on the walls, combs or hairbrushes, glasses for water.
Nobody lives here.
The man hasn’t brought me to his home. Maybe he lived here once, with his family, but not any more. He’s brought me to an immaculate deserted house and laid out a few objects here and there to make it look as if this is where he lives: that wrought-iron letter-stand in the hall… did he imagine it would be enough to fool me?
If he doesn’t live here, where does he live? Where are the rest of his possessions? Perhaps he’s not here now, asleep upstairs. Did he drug me and then go back to his wife and children? Maybe this is a second home, one his family don’t know about. One he bought to keep me locked up in for ever.
The recipe book that he used to make that disgusting meal with the grey sauce is still open on the kitchen counter, still with the bookmark laid across it. I look around for other cookery books but see none. The open pages are glossy, unstained by spillages. He bought the book in order to cook for me. That was the first time he used it.
The kitchen window sill is pristine, uninterrupted white. I get down on my hands and knees and start to open the cupboards that run along the bottom of one wall. There’s nothing in them apart from three saucepans, two Tupperware containers and a colander. Inside the colander there’s a clear plastic syringe with measurements printed on it along one side.
My heart goes wild. I tear the lids off the saucepans, looking for a bottle of whatever he’s been using to knock me out. Rohypnol. Does it even come in a bottle? Surely he’d keep it close to the syringe. The measurements chill me more than anything: the idea that he leaves nothing to chance. He knows what he’s doing, knows exactly how long he wants me to be unconscious for, how much of the drug he needs to achieve it.
I hate him more than I thought it was possible to hate. I scramble to my feet, sweep the recipe book and bookmark off the counter on to the floor, panting with rage. The book slams shut as it lands. I read the title on the cover: 100 Recipes for a Healthy Pregnancy.
‘Which one do you fancy this evening?’ says a voice from the hall.
At gunpoint, he marches me back to the room with the stripy carpet. He is wearing dark green paisley pyjamas. ‘Lie down,’ he says, pushing me towards the massage table. ‘On your back.’ His voice is stern. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.
‘What have you done to me?’ I whisper, afraid to raise my voice in case it makes him angry.
He wheels the table over to the wall. ‘How am I supposed to have a clear head for work if you wake me up at quarter past five in the morning?’ he says.
I hear myself apologise to him. I need to know, need to be told. However bad it is.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘Shush. Stop crying, there’s no need to cry. Now, shuffle along and down-this way, that’s right-and put your legs up against the wall, so that your body makes a right angle. That’s good. Now, stay in that position. Get as comfortable as you can. I want you to stay like that for an hour or so.’
Tears pour down my cheeks, collect in my ears. I can’t speak.
He walks over to the window, tapping the gun against his open palm. ‘I suppose, since you’ve obviously worked it out, there’s no point in my being secretive any more. You saw the title of the recipe book.’
‘I’m not pregnant!’
‘You might be. You might be already, if we’re lucky.’
The vitamin pilclass="underline" it was folic acid. That’s why the taste was so familiar. I took it throughout both my pregnancies.
‘Have you raped me? How many times?’
He makes a disgusted noise. ‘Thanks,’ he murmurs. ‘Thanks such a lot for that vote of confidence.’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘I’m not an animal. I used a syringe.’ He lets out a small laugh. ‘I didn’t have a turkey baster, not being much of a cook. You’re the only person I’ve ever cooked for, in fact.’
‘You drugged me and undressed me and injected me with… with…’
He picks up my hand and squeezes it. ‘Sally, I want us to be a proper family. I’ve got a right…’ His voice wavers. ‘Everybody has a right to have a proper happy family. I’ve never had that, Sally. I don’t think you have either.’
‘That’s not true, it’s not true!’
‘I know you need time to adjust. I wouldn’t dream of suggesting we sleep together, not yet. Never, if you really don’t want to. I’m not a brute.’
I dig my fingers into my legs. If I could, I’d rip out all my insides until there was nothing left of me.
‘I know I should have told you about the baby but… well, I was eager to get the ball rolling. I’m sorry.’
‘How many times have you… injected me?’ I manage to say.
‘Just twice. And I’ve got a good feeling about this last time.’ He crosses his fingers, holds them in front of my face.
I cry while he strokes and pats my hand and makes soothing noises. I have no idea how much time is passing, how much of my life I am losing in this room: half an hour, maybe longer, since he last spoke. When I run out of tears, I say, ‘Why did you give me a massage?’
‘To make you feel good. You love massages.’
‘I was unconscious!’
‘I thought it might relax you, subconsciously. Sometimes the body knows things the mind doesn’t. The more relaxed you are, the more likely you are to conceive.’
I feel a surge in my stomach, nearly choke on the bile that rises to fill my throat.
‘Do you think I want this to be horrible for you, Sally? I don’t. I truly don’t.’
‘I know.’ I’m going to get that gun off you and I’m going to kill you, you sick fuck.
‘You have to try to want what I want. Do you remember, at Seddon Hall, you told me you were sick of always being the one who had to arrange everything: Valentine’s Day dinners, even treats for your own birthday?’
‘You make it sound as if I hated my life!’ I blurt out, sobbing. I can’t bear to listen to him. ‘I love my life-I was just complaining!’