The Taken Girls: An absolutely gripping crime thriller full of mystery and suspense. G Sanders D

       16

      Lucy hugged herself for warmth and companionship. She’d been woken by foxes. Their high-pitched shrieks, like a distressed child, were disturbing when she was in her own bed. Here, alone without light in an isolated building, the noises were terrifying. The cold shiver, which was no more than a brief sensation at home, persisted and grew until her body shook uncontrollably.

      She’d tried not to think about it, to bar it from her mind, but Lucy knew from many news reports that girls reported missing were usually found dead. She’d been taken from the street, she was missing and she was completely at her kidnapper’s mercy. Much though she wanted to believe his assurances that he would set her free, deep down she couldn’t escape the thought that she would die. Whatever he had taken her for, eventually he would kill her. She struggled to overcome the feeling of utter helplessness. Only by staying alert would she have any chance of ensuring her survival.

      As light began seeping through the high windows, Lucy used the pail and washed. When he arrived she was listening to music but she heard him knock and call out because his warning coincided with the end of a track. The sound of the outer door was followed by a brief silence before he came into sight and the strange voice asked how she was feeling.

      ‘I want to go home. You say you’re in control, so why won’t you let me go?’

      ‘That’s my business. You’ll stay until I’m ready to let you go but, remember, you’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve promised to release you and I keep my promises.’

      He approached the wire partition.

      ‘Come here and put your wrist close to the slot so that I can unlock the handcuff.’

      Lucy did as she was told.

      ‘There … that should feel better. Get some exercise while I make breakfast. Before we eat I’ll want you to put the handcuff back on and stand here by the slot so that I can lock it.’

      ‘And if I don’t?’

      ‘That wouldn’t be wise. You’ll have no breakfast and nothing to eat or drink until the handcuff’s back on.’

      After they’d eaten, he was in no hurry so he left Lucy on the bed listening to music and went to his private room. Inside there was a slight smell of preservative. He felt comfortable here. All was ordered, everything in its place. He let his eyes wander over the gleaming bottles and jars. This collection was more important than the one he’d had when he was a boy. Things were different then. His thoughts drifted back to when he was a child, a time he remembered clearly, a time he would never allow himself to forget.

      In his mind he sees the room, or rather he doesn’t see the room. He’s in the room but he can’t see it because it’s dark. The curtains are drawn and it’s so black that if he held his hand in front of his eyes he wouldn’t see it. But he doesn’t do that. It’s cold. In the morning his breath will have frozen on the window pane. He keeps his hand under the scratchy blanket, breathing the cold air in through his nose and out through his mouth into the bed. The warmth never reaches his feet but the rhythmic breathing and self-induced shivering distract from the cold. He’s not afraid. Unlike some children he has no fear of being alone, no fear of the dark. Nothing bad can happen. It’s happened already. When he cried and was comforted, the smell was different and the arms that held him were thinner than before.

      Sometimes he was woken during the night by sounds, animal sounds. Later he realized those sounds came from their mother’s room. He never thought of her as his mother, always their mother; it spread the pain. The sounds came every evening a man was there. It was always a man. Not always the same man, but always a man and always loud. Telling their mother she was good enough to eat. She would laugh and turn to the mirror for a final touch of lipstick. She didn’t seem to notice that whenever she turned away the man’s eyes were all over her daughter.

      Often, especially when it was a new man, their mother would notice a last-minute crease in her blouse and ask Reena to get the ironing board. If her daughter were slow to move she would be urged by a commanding ‘Doreena!’ Even then, he knew his sister hated her full name. With the board in place but the iron barely warm, their mother would take off her blouse and give it a quick pass. Facing the man, she would slowly re-button the blouse, turn to the mirror and say, ‘There, that’s better.’ The inevitable reply, ‘I liked you better without it’, would be countered with a ‘Not in front of the children’ softened by a satisfied smile.

      Reena was big for her age. By the time she was 11, whenever there was a man around, she’d taken to doing a bit of ironing of her own. He wanted none of it. As soon as he heard the doorknocker he went to his bedroom. The voices continued until he heard the front door shut behind their mother and her latest man. Sometimes, as a parting shot, Reena was encouraged to be a good girl but their mother never came to wish him goodnight. The next morning she would appear bleary-eyed and tell him to go play in his room. He’d hear voices and then the front door would close.