Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

I remember the first time we were in the basement when George came. We heard something heavy being moved above the trapdoor. Then his voice: “Are you decent?”

He laughed; his little joke.

The trapdoor opened.

“Mind yourselves,” he said. A rope snaked down and slapped against the concrete floor.

Tash tied the end of the rope to the gas bottle and he pulled it up, before lowering down a full one. Then came a basket of food: cans of tuna, baked beans, rice and pasta.

He called for Tash. Told her to climb the ladder. She told him to fuck off. We stared into the blackness of the hole. Waiting. A nozzle appeared. A hose. He released the valve and hosed us down. Water like ice, stinging our backs and legs. We curled up in the corner, hugging each other, trying to escape the spray.

He wet our beds and all our clothes, before he turned off the lights and left us in the dark.

We hung the blankets from the ladder, trying to get them dry. Then we turned on the gas ring and took turns drying our underwear and T-shirts. I thought I was going to die that night.

Two days later he came back. He dropped the rope. Emptied the bedpan. He asked for Tash. This time she went.

Because the ladder doesn’t reach all the way to the trapdoor, she had to stand on the top rung and raise her arms. He reached down and grabbed her by her wrists, hoisting her upwards. The trapdoor closed.

It seemed like she was gone for a long time. Longer than a day on Venus, my dad would say, or longer than a month of wet Sundays. I thought of all the things that might happen to her, which only frightened me, so I stopped trying to think.

When the trapdoor opened, I wanted to scream I was so happy.

He lowered Tash down. She wore different clothes-a pretty dress, with clean underwear. She had shampooed her hair. She smelled clean. Fresh.

“What happened?”

She didn’t answer.

“Are you all right?”

She crawled onto her bunk and rolled over, facing the wall.

The next morning, she didn’t get out of bed. She lay in her pretty dress, not talking.

“Please tell me what happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Did he do something to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I stroked her hair. We lay there for a long time. She was feverish and then shivering with cold.

“We’re not getting out of here, are we?” I said.

She shook her head.

Normally she was the one who cheered me up. She was always coming up with elaborate escape plans that needed things that we didn’t have-like shovels, or explosives, or guns.

A week later the same thing happened. George opened the trapdoor. Called her name. Tash climbed the ladder.

Again I worried that she might not come back. I didn’t want to be alone.

This time she returned with treats-chocolate and soap and magazines. A part of me was jealous. Her hair was shiny and clean. Her legs were shaved… and under her arms. She smelled like a Body Shop and she wasn’t hungry. We were always hungry.

I lay on the bunk that night and watched the shadows move across the wall beneath the window. Jealous. She was his favorite. He gave her nice things.

“What happens up there?” I asked her.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“No.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

Then she curled up and went to sleep. She didn’t have nightmares, not like me. Sometimes she slept so quietly I got frightened that she was dead and would tiptoe over to her bunk and put my face close to her face, listening; or I’d blow gently in her ear until she snuffled and rolled over.

Then I’d be sure.

The hospital cafeteria is an echoing space full of scraping chairs and easy-wipe tables. It’s mid-afternoon and already dark outside. The lunchtime meals are warmed over in the trays: lasagna and baked vegetables and dried-out roast.

John Leece slumps in a chair, staring at the window as though looking at something that he can’t quite bring into focus.

“I’ve never really understood what people see in alcohol, but sometimes I wish I was a drinker,” he says. “It seems to bring people comfort. My father wouldn’t touch the stuff, but my mother has the occasional sherry or lager shandy.”

“What did you see in there?”

“I can’t comment until I talk to the police.”

“OK, we won’t talk about the post-mortem. I’ll ask you general questions.”

He nods.

“How long would a person survive outside without shelter in a blizzard like the one on Saturday?”

“A matter of hours.”

“The bruises and cuts…”

“She was wandering around in a blizzard. She could have bumped into trees and fallen into ditches.”

“Nobody has reported her missing.”

“Maybe she’s not a local.”

“They haven’t found a vehicle.”

Dr. Leece presses his thumbs into his eye sockets. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m grateful that I don’t have to understand human behavior.”

Augie Shaw saw a woman standing barefoot in the middle of the road. It has to be the same one. She didn’t take her shoes off next to the pond. She wasn’t wearing any to begin with. Why run off? Why was she outside in a blizzard? Who was she running from?

“Did you notice anything else unusual about the scene?” I ask.

“We found a dog.”

“What?”

“It was frozen with her. Maybe the dog went in after her or she was trying to rescue it. Once she hit the water, the cold overwhelmed her and she didn’t have the strength to drag herself out.”

“Was it a black and white Jack Russell?”

The pathologist stares at me. “How could you possibly know that?”

“One went missing from the farmhouse. Small, black and white, I figured it was probably a Jack Russell.”

“The Heymans’ dog?”

“Yes.”

“Why would it be with the girl?”

It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself and I keep coming back to something that Grievous told me at the farmhouse.

“Do you keep the dental records of missing persons?”

“Of course.”

“Can you look up a file for me?”

“Certainly. Who?”

“It’s a girl who went missing a few years ago. Natasha McBain.”

Dr. Leece’s eyes bobble behind his glasses. “She was one of the Bingham Girls.”

“Her family used to live at the farmhouse, but they moved out after Natasha went missing.”

The pathologist’s mouth opens; a question half formed on his lips.

“So the dog?”

“What if they left it behind?”

Charlie is waiting for me at the hotel suite, sprawled out on one of the twin beds as though bored with life. I kiss her forehead. She looks past me at the TV. Silent. Righteous.

The room is dully corporate, decorated in navy blues, with a high ceiling and an ornate plaster rosette above the hanging light.

“Sorry I’m late. I got held up.”

“All day?”

“I left you a message.”

“Who was that woman you were talking to?”

“Pardon?”

“Outside the college after your lecture: you were talking to her.”

“She’s an old acquaintance.”

“Did you go to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very good looking.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Act like you’re stupid.”

Even without looking at her reflection in the mirror I know she’s scowling at me.

“Her name is Victoria Naparstek. She’s a psychiatrist. She wanted to discuss one of her patients.”

“Augie Shaw.”

“How could you know that?”

“He was just on the news. He’s being questioned about those murders at the farm. Did he do it?”