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I nod. “I should go, I’ve taken up a lot of your time.”
“Not at all,” he says. “But you probably want some time to think everything through. I imagine it’s all been rather a shock. Would you like me to call a taxi to take you home?”
“Thank you, but I’m going to go shopping. There are a few things I need for the house.”
I walk to the shopping area, wishing there was someone I could talk to about how I feel. But there’s no one left; everyone I cared about is dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I stand outside the DIY shop, my arms crossed over my body, waiting for it to open. It’s out of town, so I had to take the bus here. I could feel panic rising inside me as the bus became fuller at each stop, everyday people going about their everyday lives.
On paper, my own life has changed from nightmare to fairy tale in the space of a few weeks. I’m no longer a prisoner, I am safe, I have money. But it is still a nightmare. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. And when I’m awake, my mind is so full that I find it hard to focus on anything. If only I could stop thinking about the kidnapping, about my abductor, the man I fought and scratched and bit.
Twice now, when I’ve been out shopping, I was so sure that he was close by that I actually spun around, thinking I would find him standing behind me. It was only my imagination, but it had felt so real. I will never be rid of him, I realize. For the rest of my life, I will imagine him walking toward me in a pitch-black room with a boarded-up window.
A man unlocks the doors to the shop.
“You’re eager,” he says, giving me a smile. He has an orange name tag clipped onto his black T-shirt, the name Scott embossed on it.
“Do you sell chipboard?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Let me show you.”
I follow him through the store, its high ceilings echoing our footsteps.
“What’s it for?” he asks.
The question throws me. “Sorry?”
“The chipboard. What are you making?”
“I just need it,” I say.
We arrive at an area of divided sections, with different sizes of chipboard leaning against each other.
“What size?” he asks.
I tell him and he drags one out.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Yes, I’ll need a hammer and nails.”
“To put the chipboard up?”
“Yes.”
“This way.”
He lifts the sheet of chipboard and I follow him to another aisle where he picks out a black-handled hammer, and farther along, a box of nails.
“Two-inch nails,” he says. “That should do it.”
“Great, thanks.”
We walk to the register, I pay, put the hammer and nails into my bag, and pick up the chipboard.
He looks at me doubtfully. “Sure you can manage?”
