M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

The bunk bed had been rammed into the far corner. There was nothing there now, just a tattered Britney Spears poster, recently defiled with a felt tip pen. Helen found herself marching across the room, tearing the dog-eared poster down. Running her hand over the rough plaster behind it, she found what she was looking for. ‘J.H.’ Her initials. She’d carved them into the wall with a school compass all those years ago. It was a mark of the awful desperation of her childhood that she’d done so – hoping that they would survive there even if she didn’t.

Dark thoughts crowded in on Helen and she hurried from the bedroom. She dived into the other bedroom, the fetid kitchen and mildewed lounge. But it was already clear that there was nothing here for her. She had been so sure that a visit here would yield results, but she’d come up empty-handed.

This would be the last time she saw this place. She paused for a second to take it all in. Funny how they had never had any problem renting it out, even after what happened that night. When you’re poor you can’t afford to be squeamish or superstitious. There was a new family in within the week. And slowly over the years the fabric of this home had frayed and torn, until it was only fit for animals. A fitting end perhaps.

Helen hurried away from the block of flats, the guard grumpily trudging back to his cold cup of tea. She sat for a moment on her bike, pondering what to do next. Her instincts had always served her well, but they’d let her down here. Nothing for it but to pursue the other possibilites. Chase down every link.

She switched her phone on and was immediately alarmed by the number of missed calls. Alarm turned to horror when she picked up the first of many messages from DC Bridges.

Mark and Charlie had disappeared.

For a moment she was free. She was in a shopping mall, running towards the escalator. Her mother stood at the top of it, talking to a security guard, lecturing him on his responsibilities. She’d never been so pleased to see her mum and sprinted towards her. As she approached, the security guard turned to her, but oddly he was unable to speak, he just stared at her, moaning, moaning, moaning…

Charlie woke with a start – the grim reality crashing in on her. Mark was lying on the floor next to her, moaning, moaning, moaning… Charlie suppressed a flash of anger – it wasn’t his fault. His head wound was a nasty one and they had been unable to treat it. Initially Charlie had used spit and a shirtsleeve to clean it, but she worried now she’d only succeeded in rubbing more dirt into it. Mark was in a bad way even before they were abducted – too much booze, too many sleepless nights – and the blood loss had weakened him still further. Now he had a nasty wound that was in the first stages of full-blown infection. Fever seemed to be taking hold. What would she do if he became seriously ill?

Pushing this thought away, Charlie checked her watch. How long had she been asleep? Not long enough. Time moves so slowly when you’ve given up hope. That first morning they had both been active, even hopeful, intent on fashioning a way out of this tomb. They resolved to sleep at night and work by day. The second morning, they’d used their belt buckles to try and make an impression on the heavy hinges of the door. But it’s hard to keep going when all your efforts are to no avail. In the end the buckles snapped and by the second afternoon of their captivity, listlessness and despair were already taking hold.

Never had Charlie felt so dirty, so disgusting, so utterly helpless. The small confines of their prison were already becoming repellent. They had made a pact to defecate and (in her case) vomit in the far corner of the room and Charlie had stuck religiously to this, hurrying over to empty her guts on to the reeking floor when her morning sickness struck. Mark it seemed was already too weak or too careless to honour their agreement. He had just soiled himself and the stench filled Charlie’s nostrils.

Immediately, nausea gripped her and she hurried over to the dirty corner, heaving up a long string of acidic bile. Her stomach convulsed again, then again before finally coming to rest. Suddenly her throat raged – an all-consuming, punishing thirst. Charlie charged round the room looking for any source of moisture, all the while screwing up her eyes, trying to cry so she could lap up the salty tears. But nothing – she was already cried out. All was los-

Movement. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Terrified to look – scared of what she might find – she turned her head, inch by inch. And there it was. A big, fat rat.

It had appeared from nowhere. To Charlie it was a miraculous vision of hope – like an oasis in the desert. Food. Mentally she was already sinking her teeth into it, ripping the flesh from its bones, silencing the pangs of her groaning stomach. There might be enough for both of them given its size.

Carefully does it. Not too fast. This could be the difference between life and death. Charlie slipped her jacket from her shoulders – it was not a brilliant net, but it would have to do.

One step forward. The rat looked up suddenly, peering into the gloom. Charlie froze. Then after a quick sniff, the rat returned to his nibbling, greed winning out.

Another step forward. This time the rat didn’t move.

Another step. Charlie was close now.

Another. Now she was virtually on top of it.

Charlie sprang forward, bringing the coat down on its head. The rat struggled furiously, as Charlie rained down blows on the wriggling bulge. Finally it stopped moving. Had she done it? She gave it another whack to be sure, then loosened her grip a notch to check. The rat darted out of the coat in a desperate bid to escape. Charlie snatched at its tail, almost snagging it, but it slipped through her hands and away. Through a crack in the wall to safety.

Charlie hauled herself to her feet. It was so desperate it was almost funny. Her stomach ached for food, her throat was on fire. She had to have something. Some relief. Some sustenance.

She gave in and did what she had vowed she wouldn’t stoop to. Dropping her knickers, she urinated into her cupped hand, then drank the warm liquid down in one go.

Was it her imagination or did they blame her? Charlie and Mark had been missing for over forty-eight hours and the team’s anxiety was morphing into shock and distress. Now as Helen marshalled the team’s hunt for their missing colleagues, she began to see accusing stares everywhere, as if they had collectively decided that this was all her doing.

Phone triangulation last placed Mark and Charlie on Spire Street. This tallied with the anonymous tipoff about Tanner that had prompted them to head to that area. But after that the trail went cold. They had turned off their mobiles and radios and hadn’t been in touch with any of their police colleagues. Initially the team had hoped that the spotting of Tanner was genuine and that somehow – somewhere – Charlie and Mark were still working the case. But slowly it had become obvious to all that the phone call was bogus. There had been no attempted mugging – Mark and Charlie had been deliberately guided to this location. It smacked of a trap. Everyone was thinking the same thing – had she got them?

Spreading out from Spire Street they investigated every building, spoke to every shop owner and passer-by and on the second circuit of the former children’s hospital a sharp-eyed constable had spotted a loose board on one of the windows. There was fresh mud on the sill as if someone had climbed through it recently. Helen wanted to get officers inside immediately, but her superiors had refused to let her do so without tactical support.