59 | Gemma
Time passes. She has little idea how much. It’s marked only by the filling of her bladder and the increasing pain in her tethered limbs. She tries to move around, relieve the pressure, but there’s little room for manoeuvre. They have tied her very tightly.
Sometimes footsteps pass beyond the door. But they never pause. Just pass on by and vanish into the ambient sound of moving water.
She strains and strains in a futile effort to stretch her bonds. But they’re hard, unforgiving, and all she does is break her skin. After a few hours, the tensing sends her back into spasm, then her intercostal muscles, so that even breathing is exquisite torture, something that has to be done in tiny increments, in, in, in, in, out, in, in, in, for a deep lungful makes her feel as though she is being stabbed.
Already being stabbed.
Time passes.
I am, she thinks. And soon will not be. I know that. At some point I’ll hear the rumble as they raise the anchor, and, once there is no one to hear me scream, they will come for me.
Her bladder gives way, eventually. And, as hot liquid seeps out and cools beneath her on the plastic sheet, she feels a strange satisfaction. This is what they get, then, she thinks. A girl who stinks of piss. I hope they like that.
The satisfaction is short-lived. It’s probably what they want. They want me reduced to this.
She doesn’t cry any more. The congestion on her constricted airways fills her with a terrible fear of suffocation.
Perhaps I should, she thinks. Perhaps I should weep until I can no longer breathe. Literally cry myself to death. Cheat them with the only power I have left.
But still, she doesn’t.
In the dark, a sound. More footsteps. And suddenly her eyes are wide inside her snot-slimed mask. She hears the doors along the corridor open. Quietly, one by one. And equally quietly, they close. Approaching. Coming to where she lies.
They’re here, she thinks. They’ve come for me.
The door opens.
Silence. The visitor draws a heavy breath and steps inside. The latch clicks to. She hears him cross the carpet, feels him stand over her.
Please. Please. If you’re going to start, start now. I can’t bear it. Can’t bear it. I know where this leads and I want it over.
A voice says her name. So quietly she’s almost unsure that he’s spoken. Familiar. A London accent, a voice she’s sure she’s heard before.
‘I’ve come to get you out of here, love.’
*
Gemma starts to struggle like a rabbit in a snare.
He waits until she exhausts herself. And when she is lying still, panting and giddy, he speaks again.
‘I need you to do exactly what I tell you,’ he says. ‘Exactly. Do you understand? I’m here to help you, but if you don’t do exactly as I say, we’ll fuck this up. There’s still crew on this boat, and they’re not on your side. Nod if you understand.’
He’s torturing me. He’s not here to help. He’s here to raise my hopes. She struggles again. He waits.
‘Do you understand?’
Gemma nods.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I need absolute quiet from you. You can make all the noise you want when we’re out of here, but, if anyone hears us now, we’re done. All right?’
She nods again.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Right, I’m going to take this thing off your head. That means I’m going to have to touch you. Understand?’
Gemma nods. Lets go her last strands of hope.