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I shout out for help and wait, listening for any sign of life on the other side of the door, but there’s nothing. No response. So, I try once more, and in the deafening silence, the only thing I can hear is my heart thudding in my ears.
I can’t escape. There’s no indication of who has taken me, or what they want from me. All I can be grateful for is the fact they haven’t hurt me. Yet.
I’m a prisoner.
I’m even more certain now that the man responsible for this is my father. Anything else doesn’t make sense. It must be who Mum was talking to when I overheard her. And the folder I found in her office was evidence enough she was never completely honest with me.
I settle back on the bed, but I’m not relaxed. Far from it. Flicking on the bedside lamp, I slip back under the covers and curl into a ball.
My mind is racing with thoughts of how I’m going to get out of here. No matter who took me, I’m not staying here. I won’t agree to anything they want from me. My mother taught me to be strong, and I’m not about to let her down. She’s fought for me, even though she lied. Hearing her tell the person on the other end of the phone she won’t let me go to them, only strengthens my resolve.
My stomach rumbles. I’m hungry. Mum and I were meant to have dinner, but she wasn’t in the office when I looked for her, and now, I’m here. In a house I’ve never seen before, and I don’t know who took me.
Exhaustion and the headache take hold of me, and I shut my eyes in the hopes it will help ease the pain. My throat is dry. I’m thirsty, hungry, and tired. As I lie here alone, I cry. The tears slowly trickle down the side of my face onto the pillow.
And I finally allow sleep to steal me.
* * *
“Get up,áilleacht.”A deep voice startles me awake, and I sit up before scooting back on the bed, hitting the headboard with a thud. The blankets cover me, and I tug them to my chin, wanting to hide from the man standing in the bedroom.
“Who are you?” My voice is weak, broken. My throat burns, and I can’t help coughing. It feels as if there is sandpaper in my oesophagus. My chest is tight, my heartbeat thundering wildly against my ribs.
“Come, we need to go,” he tells me without answering my question, but I do recognise his accent—Irish. I can’t pinpoint which particular area he’s from, but he’s definitely not from London.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who you are,” I bite back, frustrated and scared.
There’s no doubt about it, this man could probably kill me, but I’m not going to show my fear. He may have all the power, but I can’t just ignore the fact he’s a bad person. And I want answers.
"Just tell me who you are and what I’m doing here, please?” I use a softer tone, hoping this man, whoever he is, will offer some clarity.
“All those answers will be given to you downstairs,” he tells me, his accent thick, and I wonder again where he’s from. Or where I am.
Deciding to obey, I push off the bed and walk over to where he’s standing. I’m barefoot, and I didn’t see my shoes anywhere in the room. I’m resigned to the fact they’ve been taken, but I’m not sure why. When I reach him he grips my arm harshly and shoves me over the threshold which causes me to stumble into another waiting in the shadows.
The strange thing is, they’re both in suits. Their formal attire makes me think they’re bodyguards or something similar. Mum’s security detail were always well dressed. Their suits tailored to fit them perfectly.
I’ve grown up in a world of luxury. I’m used to people perfectly poised, immaculately dressed, and what most would considerposh.So I wonder if my father, if it is him who’s taken me, comes from wealth as well.
We make our way down a long, dimly lit hallway. The bulbs that illuminate the way offer a soft yellow glow. The walls are painted light grey, while the carpet underfoot is black. The monochrome decor is broken by the bright and colourful artwork on the walls. From what I can tell, they’re all modernist paintings. When we reach the entrance hall, I recognise a few of Andy Warhol’s artwork.
Downstairs is just as stark, with white walls and black tiles. No other colour, bar from the art. The one man grips my arm once more, causing me to wince, and he drags me to the right of the door. My freedom may sit just outside, but I’m not able to get to it as I’m led deeper into the house.
We get to a room that’s furnished in a modern lounge suite, two large sofas of black suede, and two armchairs. They face a long, glass coffee table.
The room itself is lit in a warm glow of off-white, while the floor-to-ceiling patio doors show off the darkness beyond. A door on the opposite end of the room opens, and a man saunters in. And it’s like the air is sucked out the moment he walks through. I recognise him. The man from the photo in my mother’s office.
He’s dressed smartly, with a dark suit clearly tailored for him. The crisp white shirt underneath is bright, a stark contrast to his jacket. And the deep green tie pops against the cotton. He looks at me with a smile curling his lips, and I’m startled at the blue-grey of his eyes. My eyes.
“Miren.” He says my name as if he knows me. It’s like he’s uttered my name his whole life. He stops a few feet from me, and now I’m so close to the man I believe is my father, my stomach twists. I’m nervous and scared, but I’m also intrigued.
“You kidnapped me,” I say out loud, and the two men behind me chuckle. I want nothing more than to turn to them and hurt them both. My arm is still smarting from where the one gripped me, and I’m certain it will leave a bruise.
“I had you brought home,” the man with the familiar colour eyes says. His accent thick with an Irish brogue. I think back to my mum’s stories of her childhood, and I know she was born in Northern Ireland. But because we never visited there, I hadn’t really come across people with the similar accent to the man before me.
“I was home,” I tell him. “But I was stolen from my home and brought,” I mutter, looking around, “to your house. A place I don’t know and would never consider home.”
There’s a glint in his eye, a smirk on his lips, and he tips his head to the side as he regards me. I can tell this man isn’t perturbed by my insolence. He looks amused rather than angry. His shoulders lift in a shrug when he turns and seats himself in one of the armchairs. His left leg crossing over his right as he leans back and settles his hands on the arms of the chair.
