Strung (35 page)

"He might pay me more, but he'll also make sure I end up doing serious time," he smirks.  "I'm not stupid."

"It's Robert who needs to do the time here.  I am sure I can get Chayton to work a deal.  I mean, you
have
been treating me well."  There is a definite opportunity here.

"Yeah, well I'm not so sure.  But you carry on behaving an
’ all, an’ I'll carry on treating you good."

"Do you have any idea how much the reward is?  The news didn't say."

"The paper, says it's dependant on the quality of the information.  Up to eight hundred thousand, I think."

"Wow!"
That is a lot of money.

"I'll see you in an hour then, to do your handcuffs."  He grumbles and leaves me pondering this new information, and more importantly this potential opportunity, to negotiate my own release.

~.~

I hear the jingle that announces the start of the celebrity news.  There is the usual monologue of misbehaving celebs, and I'm starting to wonder if they are going to mention Chayton at all.  Finally!  A still of Chayton looking pale and gaunt but still heart stoppingly beautiful, fills the screen.  His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, and his mouth is drawn in a tight line. 
I am captivated by the image, and almost forget to listen to the presenter's report.

"Following last Fridays display of gorgeously drunk and disorderly, Seattle's once reformed bad boy, C.J. Donavan, has posted a reward for the missing ex-wife of Robert Jones.  Could this be the woman who has captured C.J.'s heart, and is her disappearance, the reason for Friday and Saturday's public outburst?  We'll be watching this story closely."

~.~

My mind has crept to a dark place.  A dangerous place of
self-analysis, where doubt and low self-esteem twist and strangle me; choking my will.  For a long agonising hour, I have rationalised the irrational.  Chayton will get hurt when he realises how inadequate I am.  I don't want him to get hurt.

Maybe it has nothing to do with my fear of hurting Chayton.  Perhaps I feel I
do not deserve to be loved.  Straight away, I am shaking my head, and tut-tutting to myself.  The therapist in me knows all too well, that have no reason to believe this.  But after years of being told by Robert that I am not deserving- and some deep-seated part of me, has come to believe it. 

Maybe I'm reading too much into this.  I'm stressed, out of my comfort zone, and not accustomed the attention.  I sigh.  It's probably a bit of 'all of the above' but this is
my
psychoanalysis, so my rules, and for the time being I'll stick to that last one - it's easier to deal with.

SHIT!
  I'm doing exactly what Robert wants.  This is why Robert insisted, I watch the news twenty-four-seven.  He wants me to obsess.  He knows it will wear me down.  He's shelling me with constant artillery, hoping to flush me out. 
Well fuck it!
  The only obsessing I'm going to do-is getting the fuck out of here!

~.~

18th July

Thursday, I mentally block out the TV all day.  I don't need the distraction of
seeing Chayton or myself on the screen.  I pay extra attention to three things.

My work out is extra intense.  I need to whittle away at the nervous energy, causing tension and spasms throughout my body.
  I spend an entire three hours, focusing on relaxation exercises.  I need to settle my mind, calm my emotions and free my body from the grip, tension is holding it in, so it responds better to my instruction.

Last-but not least, I pay close attention to my jailer.  What leg does he favour, hand does he favour?  How good is his eyesight?  How quick are his reactions when I drop something?  How much does he trust me?  Which direction does he walk in when he leaves the room?

Bedtime, I fall into a restless sleep.  I'm hopeful this will be my last night in my stark white prison.

~.~

19th July

I wake to the same unchanging light, the same unchanging jingles on the TV.  D-Day.  I quickly wash and prepare my weapons.  I had originally planned to make my escape attempt tonight, when he removed my cuff for me to change, but I'm afraid I'll lose my nerve.

I hear his footsteps and sit casually on the edge of the bath.  A quick glance around the room tells me that it looks the same as every other morning.  I glance down at my wrist, where I've been picking at a scab and rubbing the area furiously to make it raw and red under the cuff.  The door handle turns.

"Good morning
, John," I mumble blandly, worried that my voice will betray my plans.

"Good morning, sleep well?" he replies, chirpier than usual.

"Actually no.  I must have been struggling in my sleep."  I lift the cuff and display the broken skin underneath.  "Can we swap wrists for the day?"

"I suppose."  He starts to fish the key out of his pocket, and my heart starts bellowing loudly in my chest.  One chance.  I try
to control my breathing, but fail horribly, and silently pray that he won't notice.  The small key is in his hand.  He puts the key in the lock and turns it.  I hear the small barely audible click as the mechanism turns, and my hand is free.

He holds the open cuff ready for my other wrist, and looks at me questioningly.  I stare at him for a long painful moment.  It might be easier just to offer it to him.  The tension and fear are almost too much to bear.  Outside that door, is the unknown, and a world of potential, and unbearable failures-all out of my control.  I
cannot hear anything past the harsh sound of my own breathing and the pounding freight train in my chest.

He rattles the cuff, urging me to hurry up.  I bring my good hand out from behind my back, and swing it up, pushing my flat palm into his face
.  I twist my hand, spreading the crème, over his mouth, his nostrils and his eyes.  I know his nose and throat will be burning with the strong fumes, and his eyes will be on fire as the thick pasty chemicals, strong enough to dissolve hair, get to work on the sensitive, thin membranes.  It will not keep him distracted for long.  I grab the thick coffee mug on my breakfast tray, ignoring the handle, and mash the mug as hard as I can against a spot behind his ear, spilling most of the scalding liquid down his side.  The mug cracks and crumbles under my fingers, and I watch almost frozen, as John starts to sink to his knees, his hands still covering his face.

Run!
  I wonder if he screamed.  I still cannot hear anything beyond the sounds of my own panic. 
Run!
  My legs, feel like they are stuck in three feet of thick syrup. 
Run!
  I've hurt another human being.  What if he dies?  Oh no!  How could I?  He is still on his knees, his face still buried in his hands. 
Run!

Suddenly, like a slap to the face, the room comes back into perspective.  The sounds of his moaning and the television, flood back.  My body is loosened from the sticky, binding, grip of fear, and I'm galvanised into moving. 
RUN! 
John's forehead is resting on the edge of bath, just inches from the dangling handcuff, his hands still covering the rest of his face protectively.  I quickly snap the open cuff around johns nearest wrist.  I don't where the key has gone, but finding it will keep him occupied for a while and buy me time.

I bolt for the door and glance up and down the passage.  Oh my God!  I know where I am!  The building has been remodelled a bit.  That's why I didn't recognise the bathroom.  It used to be the laundry.  I'm in the housekeeper's wing of Robert's house, my old home!  I head left away from the main house.  At the end of the corridor is a
door, which leads down to the garage and out of the building.  I reach the door.  Locked - shit!  The only other way out is through the main house.  I race to the other end of the short corridor, not stopping to check how John is doing as I fly by the bathroom door.  I reach the door to the main house and stop, straining my ears for any sounds from the other side of the door.  Hearing nothing but my own laboured breathing, I open the door a crack. 

The kitchen area.  It looks empty.  I open the door and pad through on my bare feet.  Wow!  Robert really has gone all out, with the remodelling.  The finishes are ultra modern and sleek.  Not to my personal taste
, but still very nicely done.  I wonder who he brought in to put this little lot together.  Robert doesn't have a creative bone in his entire body.

I slip through the kitchen and peer into the open plan living space.  Devoid of the living and elegantly put together.  Oh
! 
I am not sure about that! 
I stare in disgust at a huge mural, which now completely covers one section of wall, between two structural pillars.  It shows a cliff top scene, the ocean spreading out to the horizon.  Posing in the middle of the picture, on the edge of the cliff, arms stretched out, is a naked male form poised to dive.  The sinews are exaggerated and taut, and the body is toned and lean.  The head, turned slightly to one side, allows the viewer a glimpse of the angular face.  Robert!  I shudder involuntarily, in revulsion. 

I pad silently around the furniture and try the French doors. 
Locked, as well, and no doubt the alarms will be on too.  I doubt that the same alarm codes will still work after all this time.  I stand looking around the room.  There are two more doors to try but if the French doors are locked then there is a good chance that the others are as well.  I chew on my lip as I try to think.  John will free himself soon.  I need to act.  The house has no attic or basement.  I need to find a place to hide, until the doors are unlocked, and I can slip out unnoticed.  But where?  They will search the house.

Under the beds?  Inside the wardrobes?  Far too obvious.  I head back to the kitchen and find the door
I am looking for.  A small box hangs on the wall next to the door, along with a newish and complicated looking keyboard for the alarm.  I check inside the box and find a set of car keys.  The alarm pad, that used to be here, controlled the external garage doors and gate.  I hope it hasn't changed now to include the door in front of me as well.  It's a secondary door, leading to the garage. 

I grab the set of keys and try the door, breathing a huge sigh of relief when it opens
quietly.  I slip into the garage and the lights flicker on instantly, as a sensor picks up my movement.  Parked in the five-car space, are three vehicles.  A tired looking, silver station wagon, which makes my skin prickle with some long forgotten danger, a small hatchback, which I don't recognise, and the low, sleek form of a Bugatti Veyron-one of Roberts many 'penis extensions'.  The sports car's main form is a sickening bright lemon, and the side panels are a glowing lime green.  Trust Robert to pick a colour combo that will stand out for miles.  I snort when I note the signature on the door.  It should be the Bugatti signature, but there, in big clear cursive, is 'Robert Jones'.  Typical.  Even from here, I can see the bright orange interior, completely at odds with the exterior. 
Mm, the proverbial fruit basket, how appropriate. 
I fiddle with the fob on the key ring, and Veyron lights up like a Christmas tree.  I search inside the sleek car, looking for the mechanism that pops the boot.  I half expect to find a Kiwi shaped gear lever, and grape coloured carpets, to finish off the fruit basket effect-but he stopped at citrus.  I finally find something and hear a click from the front of the car.  Of course, the engine is behind the seats, so the luggage compartment will be in the front.  Climbing out I quickly lift the front and almost laugh at the irony.

The perfect penis extension
- big and flashy, full of it in the back and nothing in the front.  The luggage compartment is so small, I’d be lucky to get a driver's licence and registration in here, never mind hiding in it!  I close the lid and look at the other two cars, aware of noise now filtering down from the rooms above.  There was only one set of keys in the box.  Maybe the other two cars are unlocked.  I throw the Veyron keys onto the seat of the super car, quickly closing the door, and run to check the other cars.  The station wagon is far too open.  One glance, through any window, will expose me.  I try the small hatchback, and sigh with relief when the boot pops open on first attempt.  It is small but clean.  I open a back passenger door, and locate a latch that releases the backrest, of the seat.  The last thing I need, is be trapped in the boot.  Running around I climb in and lower the boot lid hearing it click into place loudly. 

I focus hard, needing to calm my ragged breathing.  I don't think my heart and lungs have ever worked so hard.  I hear the door
, separating the garage from the house, slam open.  I strain my ears.  A rubber sole squeaks once on the polished concrete floor.  I hear the Veyron door open and then close.  Another squeak.  Closer.  The boot lid flies open and I'm left staring into Robert’s cold, hateful eyes.

"Well my dear.  You have become quite inventive haven't you?  But you forget who you are dealing with."  His face splits into a thin, cruel smile.  The edges of my vision start to blur, reminding me that I need to breathe.  Grabbing a handful of my hair, he pulls me painfully from the boot, making me yelp.  I've always suspected that Robert has the capacity for physical violence, but never experienced it firsthand
.  Still holding my hair, tight against my scalp, pulls me from the garage.  It is hard to walk crouched so low, my head held just above his knees.  I stumble several times, but he doesn't falter, causing me to gasp in pain as my hair is yanked violently.  I scramble up the stairs on all fours, and tumble into the kitchen.