Captives

THIRTY-EIGHT

He was gone when she awoke.

Carol rolled over sleepily and felt for Scott but found that she was alone in bed. She blinked myopically, trying to clear her vision. There was a piece of paper lying on his pillow; she reached for it, running one hand through her hair.

SEE YOU TONIGHT. LOVE, JIM.

Love.

She sighed and lay down on her stomach, the note resting on the pillow in front of her.

She knew now that it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to break from Scott. Especially after what he'd said the previous night. He obviously felt more deeply for her than she had even imagined. That not only troubled her, it frightened her. Carol pulled herself across the bed to the cabinet and slid open the top drawer.

The Beretta was inside, underneath some notepads.

She took the pistol out and hefted it.

Would he really kill her if he found out she was seeing Plummer?

Common sense told her it had been a somewhat theatrical threat, but her knowledge of Scott told her otherwise. She had little doubt he would use the gun if he had to. Carol pulled back the slide, the weapon feeling heavy in her hand. She sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from her body to reveal her nakedness. Lifting the pistol she gripped it in both hands and aimed it at the mirror on the dressing table across the room, drawing a bead on her own reflection. She squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down.

She lowered the gun again and sat back against the headboard. Scott would never let her go. No matter how she told him, no matter how gently she broke it to him, no matter what explanation she gave.

She was trapped.

She should tell Plummer. But what good would that do? For a moment she gazed at her reflection, feeling as lost and alone as she ever had in her life. The mirror-jmage gazed back impassively. Carol put the gun back in the drawer and caught sight of a small box with a green lid. She took off the lid and found fifty 9mm rounds, all neatly arranged in rows of five. She lifted out one of the brass-jacketed rounds and held it between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the sleek lines, looking with bewilderment at the hollow tip of the bullet. Finally she put it back, closed the lid of the box and slammed the drawer shut.

Was she being unfair to Scott?

It was a question she had asked a dozen times in the past week.

She was seeing another man behind his back. She was giving him the impression she still cared for him, if somewhat guardedly. Yet all the time she knew she had to get away from him - not that she disliked him or hated him. Their relationship had run its course. It was as simple as that.

Simple?

She almost smiled.

It was anything but simple.

She realised that the longer she played out the charade the more damage it would do to Scott when the game finally ended. But after what he had said the previous night, how could she end it? Carol rubbed her face with both hands and shook her head.

No way out.

She glanced at the drawer and its lethal contents.

Perhaps there was a way.

Perhaps.

The journey back to her own flat seemed to take an eternity.

She sat on the tube staring absently at her fellow passengers, who either returned her gaze uncomfortably or gazed around, reading the advertisements over the seats. When there was no one opposite her Carol found herself confronted by her own image again. At one station a couple of youths got in and sat opposite her, the taller of the two eyeing her constantly as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. As they got out, the tall one leant close to her and muttered something about a blow job. They disappeared along the platform as the train moved off.

Carol walked from the station to her home, fumbling in her handbag for the key, finally letting herself in.

The room smelled of yesterday's food and she went around opening windows to dispel the odour. She'd taken a bath at Scott's place so, with a few hours left before she had to get ready for work, she made herself a cup of tea and sat down in front of the television.

It was then that the phone rang.

'Hello,' she said, putting down her mug, hissing as she burned her fingers on the hot china.

'Welcome home.'

She recognised the voice immediately.

'What do you want?' she said, her voice catching.

'Just to let you know I'm still watching.'

'What do you want?' she shouted, fear and anger now rearing up within her.

'You'll find out.'

The line went dead.

Carol slammed the receiver down and sat staring at it for interminable seconds, as if expecting it to ring again. Her hands were shaking so violently that she slopped hot tea onto her skin. The pain made her drop the cup which promptly sent the warm fluid soaking into the carpet. Carol watched as it spilled, unable or unwilling to do anything about it.

She lowered her head, cradling it in her hands.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she began to cry softly.