Stolen (4 page)

When the light faded to a gray dusk, you turned to go inside.

“Follow me,” you said.

You paused in the porch we’d come through before, beside a bank of industrial-sized batteries. There were wires attached to them, leading up to the ceiling, passing through several switches on the way. On the shelf above your head was a line of six kerosene lanterns. What would happen if I tipped one off? Would the impact stun you? How much time would it buy me to get away? You bent down, checked something, then flicked a switch.

“Generator,” you said, nodding at the batteries. “This powers everything in the kitchen and the few lights we have around the house.”

But I was still looking at the lamps. You saw, and took one down, pushing it into my hands. I grasped its bulging middle, and the thin metal handle shook against the glass. You started explaining how to use it. When you turned to get another, I lifted it toward you, but my arms were shaking too much to touch you with it. So I just stayed there, lamp midair, looking stupid. You realized what I wanted to do, though, and put the second lamp back on the shelf pretty quickly, then reached out for mine.

“You can’t get rid of me with that,” you said, the corner of your mouth curling up.

You took it from me, poured kerosene inside, and lit it. Then you pushed me from the room. Holding the lamp out in front, you led me back to the bedroom where I’d been sleeping.

“This is your room,” you said. You moved toward the chest of drawers near the door. “You’ll find clean sheets here.”

You opened the bottom drawer and showed me. Then you pulled open the two drawers above, revealing T-shirts, tank tops, shorts, pants, and sweaters. I ran my fingers over one of the T-shirts. It was beige colored and plain, size medium, and felt new.

“It’ll fit, right?” you asked.

I didn’t ask you how you knew what size I was. I just kept looking at the clothes. Everything was beige and boring. There were no brand names, nothing fancy. It looked like it had all been bought from a cheap department store. You pointed at the top two smaller drawers.

“Underwear,” you said. Then you stepped back. But I didn’t look in that drawer, either.

“I’ve got skirts and a dress or two, if you want them. They’re in the other room. They’re green.”

I narrowed my eyes. Green was my favorite color. How did you know all this?
Did
you know all this? You turned toward the door.

“I’ll show you the other rooms.” When you saw that I wasn’t following, you spun back and stepped up close to me, so close I could smell the smoke from your cigarette still lingering on your clothes. “Gemma, I won’t hurt you,” you said quietly.

You turned again and left. In that semidarkness, I heard the walls moan, contracting as the day’s heat dissipated. I followed the light from your lantern to the next room down. There was a low foldout cot set up along one of the walls, with a mess of blankets across it. There was a bedside table beside it, a wardrobe against the opposite wall, and a wooden chest next to that.

“I sleep in here, for now,” you said. You avoided my gaze. I avoided the way your words hung, unfinished.

I already knew the bathroom. The next door beyond it led to a large closet. There was nothing much in there apart from a couple of brooms, a mop, and some metal boxes. I followed your lamp to the door opposite, the last room off the corridor. It was bigger than your bedroom, almost as big as the room you said was mine. There was a cabinet at one end, and an armchair. There were bookshelves down the entire length of one wall, though they weren’t exactly full. You opened the cabinet and showed me the games on the lowest shelf: UNO, Connect Four, Guess Who?, Twister. They were all games we’d had at home, games I could remember playing with friends, or on Christmas mornings with my parents. But these versions were faded and old, as if they’d come from consignment shops.

“There’s a sewing machine, too, a guitar … sports things,” you said.

I glanced at the books, neatly lined-up on the shelves. In the lamplight, I could only make out some of the titles.
Wuthering Heights, The Great Gatsby, David Copperfield, Lord of the Flies
… books we’d studied at school. I couldn’t see any modern books up there, just classics. I looked at the next shelf. This one contained mostly field guides: guides to desert flowers and animals, studies about snakes. There were books about tying ropes and making shelters, and others about rocks. I saw a dictionary of Aboriginal languages. As I looked over the titles, I realized something.

“We’re in Australia, aren’t we?”

A brisk nod from you. “Took you awhile,” you muttered.

I remembered what you’d said to me in the airport, about whether I’d ever wanted to visit … and then your odd accent. It made sense. Apart from the fact that I’d thought Australia was all beaches and bush, not just endless red sand. But I felt a brief glimmer of hope anyway, a stirring that maybe everything would be OK. Australia was a civilized country, with a law system, and police and a government. People could be looking for me already, police hunting me out. The whole nation might be on alert. Then the glimmer faded. You’d taken me from Bangkok. Who’d guess to look for me in Australia?

“Who knows I’m here?” I asked.

“No one. No one knows either of us are anywhere. We’re in the middle of the Australian desert. We’re not even on the map.”

I made myself swallow. “Nowhere is unmapped.”

“This is.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

“How did you bring me here, then?”

“In the back of the car. It took awhile.”

“Without a map?”

“Like I said,” you hissed. “It took awhile.”

“I would have remembered.”

“I made sure you didn’t.”

That shut me up. Your eyes darted away from mine, and I took a step back. I remembered the chemical smell of that cloth over my face. The hazy jolt and sway of being in your car. The sickly sweet chocolates. I reached for more memories, but they wouldn’t come. I shook my head, not really wanting them to, either. I took another step back into the darkness and leaned against the bookshelf. My head was reeling. I wondered what else you were hiding from me. What other horrible little secrets.

“Someone must have seen you,” I whispered.

“Doubt it.”

“There are cameras in airports … security cameras are everywhere now.”

“Most of those cameras don’t even have film in them.” You lifted the lantern. Its light cast shadows onto your face and made dark hollows under your eyes.

“Someone will be looking for me. My parents will be looking for me.”

“Probably.”

“They’re important, you know.”

“I know.”

“They’ve got contacts, money. They’ll be on TV; they’ll post my photo all over the world. Someone will recognize it.”

“Unlikely.” You moved the light toward me; I felt its heat. “You were in the trunk most of the way here, under the tent.”

My chest tightened once more as I pictured my body curled up and contorted, thrown in like a piece of luggage. It was like a grisly horror film, only I hadn’t made it to the knife scene yet. I crossed my arms over my chest. How could I not remember any of this? Why only just tiny glimmers? Were the drugs you’d given me really that strong? I took another step away from you, backed up toward the door.

“In the airport, someone will have seen you….” I was speaking to myself, really. “Someone will have seen me. It’s impossible you could have got past all that security without anyone …”

“If anyone saw you, they wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“Why not?”

“You had a wig on, sunglasses, heels, a different coat. The passport I used for you had a different name. I left your old one in the dumpster.”

You moved toward me. Again, there was that intensity in your eyes, like you wanted something, and I remembered how you’d looked at me in the coffee shop. I’d fallen completely for that piercing look then. This time it was very different. I looked at the shelves; a guidebook to Australian mammals was inches from my face. I thought about chucking it at you.

“We left your backpack in the dumpster, too,” you added. “Don’t you remember getting changed, putting on a skirt? Don’t you remember touching me? You thought it was all fun at the time.”

Salty water built up in my mouth like I was going to be sick. You moved around, angling yourself between the door and me. I reached for the mammal guide.

“You’re a new person now, Gem,” you murmured. “That old you’s been left behind. There’s a chance out here to start again.”

“My name’s Gemma,” I whispered. I held the book between us like a threat. Some weapon! “And I didn’t let you do all that.”

“You did, you enjoyed it.”

You took the final step until you were standing right in front of me. I leaned back against the bookshelf, pressing my spine into it. You reached out and touched the side of my cheek. My skin went hot immediately. I held the book up, in front of my neck.

“You were pretty obliging back then, remember?” you murmured.

“No.”

My cheek was burning up beneath your touch. My jaw was set hard as I looked back at you. But I did remember. And that made it worse. I remembered laughing as you tilted and angled something on my head. I remembered the clothes, your back. I remembered how badly I’d wanted to kiss you. I shut my eyes. A noise somewhere in my throat escaped and I was suddenly crouched over and huddled into the bookshelf. Your hand was on my back.

I lashed out, catching your chin. I used all my strength to push you away.

“I hate you!” I screamed. “I fucking hate you!”

You moved your hand away immediately, as if I’d suddenly burned it.

“Maybe that’ll change,” you said quietly.

You took the lantern with you, leaving me huddled against the bookshelf in the dark.

I couldn’t sleep that night, as usual. It wasn’t the heat. It was never hot at night out there. And it wasn’t the darkness. I’d pulled the curtain open, craving the light from the moon.

As the heat died and the wooden walls shrank around me, it sounded like there were wolves in them, growling, getting ready to pounce. I listened for you, angling my pillow so that I could see the door handle. I didn’t turn over in case that little action muffled a noise from outside. The creaks in the walls sounded like your footsteps in the corridor. I was so stiff I got a headache.

A lantern was burning weakly beside my bed. I could grab it if I needed to. I could throw it as soon as that door scraped open. I imagined where I would aim. There was a black stain in the wood beside the door frame, about the right height for where your head would be. I was pretty sure I could make it. But after that? The doors could be locked, and if not, where could I run to so that you wouldn’t find me?

You lay in the next room, only a few feet away … a thin wall between us. I tried to think about school, about Anna and Ben. I even tried thinking about my parents. About anything except you. But nothing worked. Everything came back to you. You lying there. You dreaming. You thinking about me. I pictured you, on that mess of blankets, eyes wide-open and imagining how you’d kill me. Perhaps you touched yourself and pretended it was me doing it. Or perhaps you had your eye pressed up close to a crack in the wall, watching me waiting for you. Perhaps it gave you a kick. I listened for the blink of your eyelash against the wood. But there was only the creaking.

In the end I did sleep, but I don’t know how. It must have been nearly dawn when I did, my body just packing in, exhausted by the tension. When I did, I dreamed …

I was back home. Only I wasn’t really; it was as though I could see what was going on, but no one could see me. I was leaning against the window in the corner of our living room.

Mum and Dad were there, too, sitting together on the white couch. There were two policemen talking to them, perching uncomfortably on the chairs Mum had brought back from Germany. There were cameras and cameramen. People everywhere. Anna was even there, standing behind the couch with her hand on Mum’s shoulder. One of the policemen was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, firing questions at Mum.

When did you last see your daughter, Mrs. Toombs?

Did Gemma ever talk about running away?

Would you please describe what your daughter was wearing that day?

Mum was confused, looking to Dad for the answers. But the policeman was impatient, shooting a glare at the cameras.

“Mrs. Toombs,” he started. “Your daughter’s disappearance is an important matter. You do realize you’ll be in all the papers?”

When she heard that, Mum dabbed at her eyes. She even managed a thin smile.

“I’m ready,” she said. “We must do all we can.”

Dad straightened his tie. Someone shone a bright light onto them both as Anna was moved out of the shot.

I tried to cry out, to let them know I was there, in the living room with them, but no sound would come. My mouth just gaped open, the noise stuck somewhere in my chest. Then I felt my body being pulled backward, being drawn toward the window, going straight through the glass like a ghost. And I was on the outside, in the chilly night air.

I pressed against the window, trying to melt back through the glass. I was aching and cold, desperate to be back inside. Then I felt your strong arm around me, pulling me into your chest, your breath warm on my forehead.

“You’re with me now,” you murmured. “I’ll never let you go.”

I could see Mum pleading with the cameras, sobbing as the lights became brighter.

But your earthy smell filled my nostrils. And your body was smothering me. Your arms wrapped around me like a blanket, your chest thick as rock.

I woke, wheezing and gasping. Your smell was still there, in that room. It filled that space like air.