Captives

FIFTY-SEVEN

Pick it up.

Come on, for Christ's sake. Answer the bloody phone.

Jim Scott drummed his fingers on the table and held the receiver to his ear, irritated by the insistent ringing tone that throbbed inside his head.

He pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled again.

He listened to the hisses and pops of static as the number connected and the phone rang again.

'Come on,' he murmured under his breath, glancing at his watch, wondering where the hell Carol had got to at nine-forty in the morning. Perhaps she'd gone out to get some shopping, he thought. Perhaps she was in the bath.

Perhaps…

Perhaps she knew it was him and she deliberately wasn't answering.

How could she know? He rebuked himself for his stupidity. Anger that she wasn't answering now combined with concern and something approaching desperation in his mind. If only she would pick up the receiver. He needed to hear her voice, needed to speak and to hear her speak. Most of all he needed to apologise. In his clumsy, fumbling way he needed to say sorry for what had happened at the club the night before. He shouldn't have grabbed her, shouldn't have shouted at her. She was right, he had no hold over her. He didn't own her.

Pick up the fucking phone.

She had left the previous night without speaking to him, without giving him the chance to say how sorry he was. He'd sat up for most of the night brooding about it, wondering what her reaction to him would be, finally deciding that he couldn't wait until the evening to find out.

He put down the phone, sat staring at it for a moment and then dialled once more.

The ringing tone greeted him.

'Shit,' hissed Scott and slammed it down. He got to his feet and pulled on his jacket, heading for the front door.

He would speak to her, no matter what.

***

The journey took him the better part of an hour, due to delays on the Tube, but now, as he walked from the station, he felt a curious mixture of elation and anxiety.

He was going to see Carol. Not just speak to her, but see her. He could tell her face to face how sorry he was for the incident of the previous night. As he walked he wondered if he should have bought her flowers. No. It was enough that he should have taken the trouble to visit her and offer his apologies.

What if she wasn't home?

He would wait for her. If she was out he'd sit on her front step and wait until she returned, or he'd walk around and try again later. He would not leave until he'd seen her.

He rounded a corner, passing three children kicking a football back and forth across the road. The ball bounced near Scott and he trapped it with his left foot, then swivelled and hooked it to one of the young boys with his right, smiling to himself.

The boy, no more than ten, looked at Scott and frowned. 'Flash cunt,' he called as the man walked on.

The kids continued their game.

Scott finally reached the house he sought. He knew that Carol occupied the basement flat. A short flight of stone steps led down to the entrance. Scott paused for a moment, looking up at the house. The paintwork on some of its window frames was blistered and peeling like scabrous skin. A pane of glass in one of the ground floor flats had been broken, replaced hastily with just a sheet of newspaper held in place by masking tape. There were tiles missing from the roof. Scott wandered down the short set of steps to Carol's door, noticing that there was a pint of milk on the step.

He banged twice and waited.

No answer.

Perhaps she was still in bed.

He banged again. This time, when he received no answer, he moved across to the window and, cupping one hand over his eyes, endeavoured to see inside the flat. Net curtains prevented his attempted intrusion. He could see nothing.

'Can I help you?'

The voice startled him and he spun round, looking up to see a young woman standing there. She was in her early thirties, dressed in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans. She was carrying a bag of shopping that she kept moving from one hand to the other.

'I live upstairs,' she told him.

'I'm looking for Carol Jackson,' he said, noticing that the woman was running appraising eyes over him. i'm a friend of hers. I've been ringing all morning but I couldn't get any answer.'

The woman nodded.

'I should have taken her milk in,' she said. 'I usually do if she doesn't come home.'

Scott frowned.

'She's not here, then?' he exclaimed.

'She didn't come home last night,' the woman told him.

Scott gritted his teeth.

'Where is she?' he demanded.

The woman shrugged.

'I take her milk in, I don't ask her for reports,' she said as Scott started up the steps.

He brushed past her.

'Can I give her a message?' the woman asked. 'I'll probably see her later.'

Scott was already stalking off up the road.

'I'll see her later,' he called over his shoulder.

The woman shrugged and made her way into the house.

When he reached the end of the street, Scott turned and looked back towards the house.

Where the hell is she?

Could something have happened to her on the way home last night?

Perhaps she never got home.

The ball the three youngsters were kicking about landed near Scott once more.

If she didn't go home, where the fuck did she go?

'Oi, our ball,' shouted one of the kids.

Scott looked at the lad, then at the ball close to his feet. He lashed out at it and sent it flying down the road, away from the trio of kids.

'You bastard,' one of them shouted as he raced after it.

Scott ignored his insult and continued walking, his face set in hard lines.

Where the hell was she?