M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

There was one more obvious play to make. Emilia Garanita had got wind of the aborted raid on the former children’s hospital. Annoyed at not having been tipped off in time, she’d been plaguing Helen with calls, desperate to know what the raid was about and why there had been so much activity since. Were they searching for Suzanne? Or for more victims?

It was a risky move, but Helen had no choice. It was day four of their search and they still had nothing. So she picked up the phone and dialled her number.

Emilia Garanita loved her job. The hours were long, the pay was rubbish and many in authority were openly rude to reporters from the local rag, but none of that mattered to Emilia. She was addicted to the adrenalin, the unpredictability and the excitement that her job provided on a daily basis.

Then there was the power. As dismissive as politicians, coppers and councillors were, they were all terrified of reporters. They were so reliant on the goodwill of the public for career advancement – and it was reporters like Emilia that told the public what to think. Emilia felt that power now as she sat opposite Helen Grace. Emilia had chosen the venue – not Grace – and it was she who was setting the agenda now. Grace needed her help, so there would be no more lies or obfuscations.

‘Two of our officers are missing,’ Grace began briskly. ‘Charlie Brooks and Mark Fuller – you know them, I think. They may have been abducted and we need your help – your readers’ help – in our search for them.’

As Grace continued, Emilia felt that familiar tingling. This was the other great thing about being a reporter – at any given time a juicy story, a real whopper, could fall into your lap. These were the days that you grafted for. All those lost hours spent covering cases at the magistrates’ courts – the vandalism, the fights, the burglaries – were the price you had to pay to earn yourself a real story. And when one did come along, you’d better be ready. These were the stories that made your name.

Emilia couldn’t write quick enough, even though she was using shorthand. The developments in this story were astonishing, she could already see the spread in her head. And to be ahead of the nationals on something like this – that really was gold dust.

Emilia promised to do all she could and Grace departed. The DI said she was pleased with the outcome of their ‘chat’, but she looked rather green around the gills, Emilia thought. Not a woman who was comfortable asking for help or playing second fiddle to another girl. So much for the sorority.

Emilia sped back to the office. The nervous excitement she’d felt earlier had dissipated now and she felt oddly calm. She knew exactly what she would do.

Throughout her working life, she had used journalism as a weapon – to expose, harm or destroy those who had it coming.

This time would be no different.

It was 6.30 a.m. and the sun refused to rise. A thick, dank fog hugged Southampton – the perfect embodiment of Helen’s mood. She slammed the front door shut behind her, mounted her bike and raced off towards the city centre, gunning the throttle unnecessarily hard.

Another thirty-six hours had passed and still no news. No, that wasn’t true, there’d been plenty of ‘news’, but none that had been helpful. Ever since she’d left Emilia, Helen had been kicking herself, fearing she’d made a bad mistake. She hadn’t really had much choice, the press had to be informed, but still she had only made things worse. She had met Emilia late at night, so the following morning’s story was sensational, but light on the details. Today’s offering from the Evening News promised to be a rather different affair.

A copy of the paper was lying on Helen’s desk when she arrived. A member of the team being helpful or someone making a point? Helen skipped the lurid headline and went straight to the detail on the inner pages. It was awful. Torture porn in all but name. In exhaustive and prurient detail, they took their readers through the various stages of starvation and dehydration, speculating on which officer would hold out longer and what were the possible causes of death. For the cloth-headed reader, they even had a helpful graphic – a schedule of physical and mental decline – outlining how Charlie and Mark would feel on Day One. And Day Two. Three. Four. Five. A big question hung over the days beyond, but it only meant one thing.

Buried in amongst all the prurience was a police hotline, the alleged point of the exhaustive coverage. Predictably it had been ringing off the hook. The sense of excitement generated by this extraordinary story ensured that. The majority of the calls were desperate, attention-seeking stuff – it made Helen seethe with anger.

When she sat down with Charlie’s boyfriend and with Mark’s parents, Helen had little solace to offer them. The sensational reports in the Evening News had made them frantic with worry and they vented their anger on Helen. She’d had to be frank with them about their loved ones’ chances of survival, whilst promising to do everything possible to bring them home. They were shell-shocked, couldn’t really take it in, as if this were some grim nightmare from which they’d soon wake.

Helen was desperate to give them something, some good news to end their misery, but there was no point lying. She knew Mark and Charlie would be strong, but no one had seen hide or hair of them for almost a week now. Who knew what state they were in? Or how long they could hold out? Everybody’s human after all.

The clock was ticking now and every minute counted.

Charlie tried to get up. But as she pulled herself upright, her head swam. She felt lightheaded, drunk, and collapsed back down on to her bum. Turning her head away, she retched once more. But there was nothing to bring up – hadn’t been for a couple of days now.

She was starving. It was a phrase she had used so many times casually – now she was learning its full awful meaning. Repeated bouts of diarrhoea, spasming joints, red blotches all over her torso and maddening cracked skin around her mouth, elbows and knees. It was like she was moulting – disintegrating. In time she would be little more than a skeleton. The maggots were long gone. Mark would probably be dead before they returned.

Across the room, Mark started mumbling ‘I had a little nut tree’ by way of accompaniment. He had been mangling nursery rhymes for a few days now – perhaps his mother had sung them to him, or perhaps he sang them to his daughter.

Whatever, the words were all wrong, the tunes all mixed up. He was just making noises really, proving to himself that he was still alive. Who was he kidding?

Charlie scanned their prison for the umpteenth time. And the same four walls stared back at her. The smell was awful now, six days of excreta, sweat and vomit combining in a hideous cocktail. And they were getting awfully cold. Charlie had tried to wrap Mark, whose teeth chattered with fever, in boiler insulation, but it scratched and annoyed him and fell off anyway.

Charlie had considered eating it, but she knew it wouldn’t stay down and she couldn’t face any more unnecessary vomiting. So she just sat and thought dark thoughts.

She rested her head against the hard, cold wall. For a moment, the coolness of the stone soothed her. This then would be her tomb. She would never see Steve again. She would never see her parents. Worst of all, she would never see her baby.

There would be no salvation now. She was no longer expecting the rescue party. All they could do now was wait for death.

Unless. Charlie kept her head pressed tight to the wall, her eyes screwed shut. She knew the gun was close by but she refused to look at it. It would be so simple just to walk over and pick it up. Mark couldn’t stop her, it would all be over quickly.