Sarah was under the blanket, some warmth tingling back into her feet, the mud cracking off her skin, when she heard the screech of the door moving on its runner, just audible over the sound of the heartbeat blasting through the speakers. There was the crunch of feet in the dirt again, but faster than normal. Sarah peered over the top of the blanket. She saw the familiar hood, but the shape of the head looked different. Leaner, smaller. It was the other one, the one who had come to her when she had been in the box.
She shrank back, shaking suddenly. She remembered the time in the box.
It had been waiting for her when she first arrived in the room, after the cramp of the car ride, squashed into the boot, gripped by panic, hyperventilating, her breath coming out as short rasps that echoed under the lid. There had been voices in the car, just murmurs, too quiet to make out, not rising above the hum of the tyres on the road. Sarah had tried to work out where they were going from the turns and the stops, but she got lost pretty quickly. The car was old, so the suspension
had bottomed out of every pothole, sending a kick to her back.
When the car came to a stop, Sarah had been pulled out by the rope around her wrists, her arms twisted back, and then dragged along a path, sharp gravel under her feet, hands over her eyes. She was taken down some stairs and thrown into the room, her chest breaking her fall in the dirt.
He had untied the rope, his mask still on, but then she had been dragged to the corner of the room, towards the box.
The box was lying on the floor, long like a rifle chest. Entry was at one end, and she was put in head-first, like a corpse in a mortuary drawer, on her back, her arms by her side. It was only just wide enough, so that her arms were wedged against the sides, impossible to move. Her head pushed against one end, and when the open end of the box was slammed shut, it banged against her feet so that she had to curl her legs up to fit.
The sides or front had no give to them, no cracks in the lid to allow a view out, and the top was only inches from her face, so that her breath made the air condense around her cheeks, warm and stale, just a vent by her feet to let it out. She wanted to stretch out but couldn't. She had screamed, she had cried, but none of it made a difference. She thought hard on how to stay calm, how to think and how to rationalise, to work out time. But then another night had come, obvious from the cold, and another one after that. Hunger gnawed at her, Sarah's survival instinct superseding her fear, her mouth dry.
But then he had returned and turned the box over.
Sarah had spent the next day face down, unable to move her arms, not knowing when she'd ever be able to move again. She felt her captivity against her head, her feet, her back, her front. No water, no food, trapped in her own piss and shit.
She was tipped out of the box on the third day and allowed some water and a crust of bread. He had stood over her, the light from the room blinding her after those days in darkness, and she spent a few precious moments of movement trying to get used to the glare. He had said nothing. He just watched her, nothing to see but the hood, stood still, his arms by his sides. But then she was slotted back into the box. She struggled and screamed, begged not to go back in, but he was too strong for her.
This went on for another three days. No talk, no reasons given. Just captivity and silence.
But there had been the other person, the one in the room with her now.
Sarah could tell he was younger, from the excitement in his voice when he came into the room, calling her name, taunting, tormenting her. One day he turned the box on its end so that Sarah was upside-down, his groans of effort loud against the lid. She couldn't stop her body slumping down so that her neck bore her weight, unable to get her arms free to provide support. All that kept her in place was the tight dimensions of the box. Sarah wasn't like that for long, just a few minutes, but she thought she was going to suffocate on the weight of her own body pressing down on her, but he returned and threw the box back onto the floor.
Another game was banging the box with hammers. Just noise, the only break in the silence, but the hammers banged around her, thudding, too loud in the box.
Although the room scared her, she did not want to go back in the box.
‘What do you want?’ asked Sarah, looking up, a tremor to her voice.
He threw a bag onto the floor. Sarah looked. It contained clothes. Her jeans were clean, and the shirt too, and there was a jumper in there, home-knitted, warm-looking. Sarah climbed out of the bed and began to pull them on, almost smiling at the warmth. He left the room and then returned almost immediately with a plate of food, soup and bread, with coffee, along with something else.
Sarah looked at the food. ‘More kindness?’ she asked.
‘Nothing for free,’ he said. ‘But you must do something for me,’ and he held up a clear plastic bag.
Sarah saw the pen and paper inside, and then she noticed his latex surgical gloves and the way he was holding the bag away from himself.
‘Another letter?’ Sarah asked. She remembered the other times, the only respite from the box. She had gone along with it, hoping for some reward, maybe some comfort, but the words were disturbing, frightening.
‘I want people to know that you're still alive,’ he said. He sounded excited. Sarah noticed that he seemed twitchy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘But why like this?’ she asked. ‘They don't make sense.’
‘Because I say you should,’ he replied.
He put the food on the floor, out of her reach. He walked over to her and passed her the pen and paper.
He then reached into his pocket and put some pre-prepared scrawl of his own in front of her.
‘You know what to do. Copy that and you can have the food.’
Sarah looked at him and she felt angry. It was time for a little victory of her own.
‘Let me eat first and then I'll do it.’
‘Do it now,’ he said, some irritation creeping into his voice. ‘If you don't, I walk out and you won't eat.’
Sarah looked down at the tray of food, the aroma of the soup making her salivate. She looked down at the scrawl she had to copy. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I'll do it.’ Tears began again. ‘Don't go. Please.’
The shuffling of his feet seemed to get faster, almost gleeful. He was enjoying it too much. She wiped away the tears, ashamed, and looked more closely at what she had to write. It made her shiver.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked.
He shook his head, and Sarah knew she had no choice, so she wrote, her cold fingers struggling with the pen.
She put the pen and paper back into the bag, which he held open for her. Once satisfied, he walked out of the door, holding the bag in front of him.
Sarah looked over at the food and felt her hunger rush back at her. She ate the soup quickly, the spoon clattering against her teeth, and then gulped down her coffee. It was hot and strong.
She lay on her back, feeling stronger, and looked at the grain in the wood of the beams that crossed the ceiling. She looked at nothing else for around twenty minutes, but then she realised that she could see the
grain clearer than she could before. The grooves were sharper, showing shade. The light bounced around them, made them move like a slow pulse, rainbows flashing around each swirl, the knots moving in time with the noises that came from the speakers. She was transfixed, wanted to see where the lines went. They moved towards each other as she looked, seemed to get tangled, and then she shrank back as the beams came hurtling towards her, as if the ceiling was collapsing, her arms over her eyes. But there was no pain. She looked up again, and saw that the beams were still there. But they were vibrating in time with the heartbeats that blasted out of the speakers. She scuttled backwards, scared, feet kicking against her blanket as she sought refuge. But there was no safe place to hide. She ended up on the floor, on all fours, her eyes darting around, looking at her cell. She saw that all the walls were moving, beating in time with the noise, and then in time with her own heartbeat, which went faster as her fear grew. The stones of the wall started to blur together and grow darker, making shadows that seemed to blot out the glare from the spotlights.
Sarah screamed and wrapped her head in her arms. It came to her quickly, a dead certainty. Something had been in that food. She didn't feel right. Her thoughts felt like they were being pulled backwards through a small hole, reality imploding, the unreal taking its place.
She felt herself panic. She knew what was happening, but she knew that she couldn't stop it. Her legs turned heavy and she slumped to the floor, unable to move.
Sarah closed her eyes quickly, but the lights were still
there. First red, lighting her eyes, then purple, then blue. They went to green, then to yellow, then back to red. Then it started again, only this time faster, the rhythmic change becoming a streak, becoming a blur, the noise of the colours screaming in her head like pressurised air.
She opened her eyes in fright. The ceiling rushed at her. She covered her face, but when she moved her arms away the ceiling was back at the top of the room.
Sarah screamed, but she couldn't hear herself over the metronomic pound of the heartbeat.
Reality was hell. This was worse.
Sarah's school was a sixties comprehensive on one of the hills overlooking Blackley, in the more derelict end of town, where the kids would go for gang fights with the Asian kids at the next school along. Time hadn't been kind to it. Paint flaked from the metal window frames in all three storeys, and the bricks looked damp where the flat roof drained the rain down the front of the building.
I made my way to reception just as the classes were emptying. Most of the kids were in uniform, although the ties were slack, the shirt buttons undone, their rucksacks slung lazily over their shoulders. Some wore their coats over their faces and tried to intimidate me as I went past. I ignored them. They were teenagers. Being pleasant wasn't in the script.
The school secretary looked up at me as I approached the counter. I smiled.
‘Hello, my name is Jack Garrett, and I'm …’
‘A reporter?’ she asked, her eyebrows raised, completing the question.
I nodded, could do little else.
She stood and put her arms onto the counter. ‘No,
we haven't seen Sarah. Yes, she was a good teacher. Yes, it took us by surprise. Did she do it? We don't know.’ She pointed towards the door. ‘That's all your questions answered. Please leave.’
I noticed weariness in her eyes. She knew Sarah, maybe even liked her, and people just like me had interrupted her life for the sake of a throwaway quote.
But that was the game. I didn't take part to be popular.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘If I can't speak to any members of staff, I'll wait outside and ask the kids.’
‘We've had that threat before.’
‘So you'll be used to it then.’
And then I turned to walk out.
I knew she would shout me back. She was pissed off with reporters because she had no choice but to speak to them.
‘Okay, Mr Garrett, I'll see what I can do,’ she said, and when I turned around she pointed at a low seat by the main entrance and barked, ‘sit there, and don't you dare move.’
I smiled, tried to get her back on my side, but the glare she gave me told me that she wasn't interested in making friends.
I watched the school kids slouch by, and then the secretary appeared at the counter again. She pointed along the corridor. ‘That door,’ she said curtly.
As I looked along, I saw a man by a door, hands on hips, his grey jacket pulled to his sides.
I nodded thanks, but she had looked away before I'd finished it. As I walked, I heard her bellow, ‘Don't run!’, and the sound of adolescent footsteps slowed down.
The head teacher looked more tired than angry. He was wearing a cheap grey jacket over a thin white shirt, with black trousers and scuffed suede shoes. His moustache was bushy, obscuring his top lip, and so it was hard to see whether he was smiling.
‘Hello, I'm Jack Garrett,’ I said, and I held out my hand.
He shook, too polite to refuse an outstretched hand, and then beckoned me into his office. His room was neat and functional. A filing cabinet filled one wall, and there was a bookcase on the other. His desk was beech-effect with a plastic in-tray, but there were few personal effects, no family pictures or potted plants.
As he sat down, he said, ‘So, what do you need to know about Sarah that hasn't already been told to the press?’
‘How are the kids about it?’ I asked. ‘It's not just about Sarah.’
‘I haven't seen the kids as excited in a long time,’ he replied. ‘Their work improved for the first couple of days. If she's caught near exam time, we could get record results.’
I laughed politely. ‘Did the kids like her?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘She was a good teacher. Enthusiastic, engaging, confident.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘There wasn't a hope in hell of her staying around. For teachers, this school is either a launch pad or a retirement home.’
‘Do you know anything about any letters she might have sent since she went missing?’ I asked, watching his
response carefully. If the headmaster knew, the police were taking them seriously.
He paused. His fingers went to his moustache and pulled at some of the whiskers.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
I didn't believe him.
‘You don't sound sure,’ I said.
He took a deep breath and glared at me. He gave a theatrical look at his watch.
‘Tell me about the letters, and let's see how far we get,’ he said.
I couldn't respond to that.
He smiled, knowing that I was just fishing for information. ‘I've got to get on, Mr Garrett.’
‘What about 31st October?’ I countered, remembering the Facebook entry. ‘Three days away. Do you know if it means anything special to her, or to anyone?’
‘It's Halloween, and so other than trick or treat, nothing.’
‘What about any special friends at school?’ I asked, as a final gambit.
‘What do you mean? Anyone who would allow a murderer on the run to sleep in their back room?’ he replied, his voice filled with sarcasm. ‘No,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Sarah turned one or two heads in the staff room, but nothing special, and I suspect there were one or two schoolboy crushes.’
‘Sounds interesting. Any names?’
‘This school is full of teenage boys,’ he said wearily, his boredom showing. ‘They would spend all day with their hands down their trousers if it was allowed. It would
be nothing unusual if there were crushes, but I suppose their mothers would spot the leggy beauty hogging the bathroom every morning.’
When I looked amused, he rose to his feet and said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Garrett.’
I held up my hands, smiling. ‘Okay, thanks for your time,’ I said.
As I left his room, I heard the head teacher pick up the phone. I gave the receptionist a wave as I went. She glared at me.
I was unsure what to do when I got outside and idly looked around at the pupils as they left to go home. Then I became aware of someone next to me. I looked down and saw a boy of around fourteen, with his head shaved around the sides and a fringe gelled to his forehead. He was wearing the school uniform, but only just. The tie was hanging down to his breast pocket and the trousers were black denims.
‘You a reporter?’ he asked.
‘How can you tell?’ I replied.
‘Because you all look the same,’ he said. I shrugged my apology, and then he said, ‘I hope they find Miss Goode. She was nice. A good teacher.’
I smiled at him. ‘But what if they find her and lock her up?’
He thought about that for a moment, and then said, ‘Nah. I was talking to my dad about it, and he said his solicitor was the best, and if she goes to him she'll get away with it. She's too nice to go to jail.’ And then he walked off, placing some headphones into his ears.
I smiled to myself as I watched him walk away.
I realised that I had a better quote by chance than I'd had from the head, straight from a pupil. Sometimes it is best just to let things fall into place rather than push them through.