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I remember us paddling and giggling in the shallow sea water.
I remember the proud and joyous look on his face when he showed me his first ever painting.
Please, I say silently to whichever gods may happen to be listening. Please don’t let us die like this.
Jeff, still hopped up on rage, is shouting at us, waving his gun around, the handle gummy with drying blood. I notice that he has a new spatter on his shirt, and my eyes fill with tears. How can someone be so evil?
“Did you know?” he’s demanding of Jamie now. “Did you know that your sister’s a fucking whore?”
Jamie starts to sob. He doesn’t know what the derogatory term means, but he knows we’re in a lot of danger. I’m eager to comfort him, but the duct tape prevents me.
“Yes. She’s a prostitute. She’s a whore to a fucking billionaire, no less.” He turns his venom on me. “How much does he pay you, Poison Ivy?”
I can’t help thinking of the envelope of cash Alistair gave me. When I don’t answer, he says, “More than you’re worth, that’s for sure.”
I’m used to Jeff’s verbal abuse. Used to being called trashy, stupid, a dirty slut. It hurt once upon a time. None of it matters to me anymore—but I can hear the pain in Jamie’s moaning, and my chest aches in response.
I keep berating myself for not getting to the phone on time, for not telling Alistair as soon as I got the message. For not telling Becks what the message from Jeff meant. For not telling the taxi driver to wait around the corner and call the cops if I wasn’t back in half an hour. For thinking I could handle this on my own.
They say you should pay attention when someone shows you who they are. Jeff had shown me over and over, and I thought leaving him would solve the problem. I should have known it would escalate. That’s what abusers do.
I watch him rant and rave about what a terrible human I am, how selfish, how hypocritical. How, if we were still together, I’d still be worth something. I pretend I’m listening, but my mind is whirring with possible escape plans, none of which are realistic. It all comes back to the same conclusion: I’m completely debilitated by black duct tape, and Jeff has a loaded gun.
The studio is soaked in petrol, and no one knows where we are.
Chapter 39
Next Life
If I could talk, I could buy some time. Perhaps Lorna’s colleagues or family would notice she’s missing. Perhaps a neighbor heard the shouting and dialed 999. If I could just keep him grandstanding, as I know he loves to do, we might have a chance. But he doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say. He wants the stage all to himself. He’s always saying he organizes protest marches to address the climate crisis, but really, he does it for the attention. The starry-eyed students who hang on his every word, the corporations who agree to meet with him to mitigate their carbon output. He does it to feel important, the bastard, and he’s calling me a hypocrite.
But I can’t say anything. Can’t do anything. I think my aching head might explode with frustration. My tongue keeps finding my loose tooth, and my cheekbone is glowing with pain. None of that hurts as much as hearing Jamie moaning in terror. It’s pure torture.
After around what I guess is twenty minutes, but feels like hours, Jeff’s anger is winding down. On the surface, you’d think that’s good news, but I know Jeffrey Bates, and it only signals elevated danger. He’s going to have to deal with us now, and the chances of him letting us go are zero. Less than zero.
He strides to the kitchen and comes back with a red plastic fuel can.
“No!” I yell. It comes out a muffled groan. I beg him with my eyes. I plead.
I will do ANYTHING, I’m trying to say. Anything. Just let Jamie go.
“Unfortunately, you’ve left me no choice.” He actually sounds regretful, the asshole. “I gave you options. I think I was quite generous, really. Offered you a whole new life. I was even willing to overlook your behavior.”
Jeff starts to splash the liquid around the room, soaking the couch and splattering the curtains. The smell is so pungent, I wish I could block my nose. Tears stream from my eyes.
“Now,” Jeff says, “I think the way I’m going to do this is to start the fire in the stupid little studio.”
I cry out and try to kick, but my legs remain motionless.
Jeff has a demented smile on his face. “That way, you can watch the fireworks.”
Jamie’s sobbing cleaves my heart in two. He’s crying so hard that his breathing is labored.
I’m shaking my head slowly, not taking my eyes off Jeff’s, silently begging for mercy. He’s not this cruel, surely.
“It’ll make it more exciting for everyone,” Jeff says. He scrounges in his pocket for a lighter, and holds it up to me. I recognize it as mine. He must have taken it from my flat when he broke in. A lighter meant for scented candles and incense.
“Be right back,” he croons.
