Tom has the fire lit in the grate. He’s well prepared; has obviously planned this. A neat stack of logs to one side of the chimney breast reaches up to the ceiling, and boxes of firelighters and matches sit on a low stool away from the fire. Smoke billows from beneath the brick arch, but as soon as Tom forces the small window pane open an inch, it begins to draw.
‘How long will we be staying?’ I ask, as if we’ve just checked into a hotel. He glances at Ellie, then at me, but only briefly. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
‘Depends,’ Tom says, deadpan. There’s a cupboard set into the wall and he opens it, bringing out a camping stove and a couple of old saucepans. ‘Hungry?’ he asks. The sleeves on his sweater are fraying, the waist of his jeans slung low on his slim hips. He wouldn’t look out of place on a building site, but then the way his blond hair curls from beneath the edge of his beanie, washed and delicate, tells me he could equally be an artist or an actor.
Ellie begins to cry. I know what she’s thinking. Our movie. A tray of delicious snacks. Bertie our Lab lolloped in front of the living-flame gas fire. A warm throw to snuggle beneath as we curl into the hilarity of the film, stuffing our faces. In bed by eleven. You still not back. Me lying awake until three, maybe four when I hear your Mercedes crunch across the gravel. A silent prayer that Ellie won’t hear or be a part of what comes next.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Tom. I don’t want him to think we’re ungrateful. ‘Try to eat something,’ I tell Ellie, when she protests. ‘We need to keep our strength up.’ I flash her a look, and she manages a tiny smile. She hasn’t let go of me since we sat down.
Tom sets up the stove on the table and opens three cans of tomato soup and a packet of flavoured noodles. Ellie and I would never eat things like this. Ten minutes later, when he hands us an enamel mug and plate of hot food, I feel more grateful for this than any prime cut of beef, any specially-imported ingredients you insist I cook for your oh-so-important friends.
‘When you’ve eaten,’ Tom says, ‘you can tell me what I should do.’ He flicks his eyebrows up in a cocky way. Under different circumstances, I’d think he was handsome. Too young for me, but a looker nonetheless. A bit like the gardener you sacked because he chatted with me when I took him out some water. It was a scorching day, but you said you’d seen the way he’d looked at me in my shorts, lingered too long over our conversation.
‘What does he mean, Mum?’ Ellie says. The plate rests on her knee precariously, the mug beside her. ‘Why do we have to tell him what to do?’
‘Eat, love.’
‘No.
Tell
me!’ She glances between us.
We will get through this, I want to tell her, but I can’t. Not yet.
‘He wants money, love.’
Tom makes a growling sound in his throat. He stands, then paces about, becoming jittery. The knife is on the table, but he is blocking my path to it. Ellie is also looking at it, and again I shake my head at her, hoping she’ll notice me telling her not to do anything stupid.
‘I don’t want money.’ Tom slugs water from a bottle into a camping kettle and puts it on the flame. ‘What will hurt him the most? After that, maybe then it’s about the money.’
I take time to think about this. It’s something I’ve considered many times before. What
would
hurt you, Marcus?
‘Daddy will pay anything,’ Ellie suddenly says in a calm and measured voice that makes me wonder where she’s mustered the bravery from. She stands up, soup sloshing on her jeans. ‘Just phone him. Tell him to leave a pile of cash somewhere and not to call the police. He’ll do anything you say. You’ll be rich, and we can go.’
Tom’s smile spreads slowly. He stares at her, then me. ‘Spunky.’ He nods approvingly, looking her up and down. ‘But it’s not that easy, sweetheart.’
‘But it
is
,’ Ellie says undefeated.
‘How long will we be staying?’ I ask, as if we’ve just checked into a hotel. He glances at Ellie, then at me, but only briefly. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
‘Depends,’ Tom says, deadpan. There’s a cupboard set into the wall and he opens it, bringing out a camping stove and a couple of old saucepans. ‘Hungry?’ he asks. The sleeves on his sweater are fraying, the waist of his jeans slung low on his slim hips. He wouldn’t look out of place on a building site, but then the way his blond hair curls from beneath the edge of his beanie, washed and delicate, tells me he could equally be an artist or an actor.
Ellie begins to cry. I know what she’s thinking. Our movie. A tray of delicious snacks. Bertie our Lab lolloped in front of the living-flame gas fire. A warm throw to snuggle beneath as we curl into the hilarity of the film, stuffing our faces. In bed by eleven. You still not back. Me lying awake until three, maybe four when I hear your Mercedes crunch across the gravel. A silent prayer that Ellie won’t hear or be a part of what comes next.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Tom. I don’t want him to think we’re ungrateful. ‘Try to eat something,’ I tell Ellie, when she protests. ‘We need to keep our strength up.’ I flash her a look, and she manages a tiny smile. She hasn’t let go of me since we sat down.
Tom sets up the stove on the table and opens three cans of tomato soup and a packet of flavoured noodles. Ellie and I would never eat things like this. Ten minutes later, when he hands us an enamel mug and plate of hot food, I feel more grateful for this than any prime cut of beef, any specially-imported ingredients you insist I cook for your oh-so-important friends.
‘When you’ve eaten,’ Tom says, ‘you can tell me what I should do.’ He flicks his eyebrows up in a cocky way. Under different circumstances, I’d think he was handsome. Too young for me, but a looker nonetheless. A bit like the gardener you sacked because he chatted with me when I took him out some water. It was a scorching day, but you said you’d seen the way he’d looked at me in my shorts, lingered too long over our conversation.
‘What does he mean, Mum?’ Ellie says. The plate rests on her knee precariously, the mug beside her. ‘Why do we have to tell him what to do?’
‘Eat, love.’
‘No.
Tell
me!’ She glances between us.
We will get through this, I want to tell her, but I can’t. Not yet.
‘He wants money, love.’
Tom makes a growling sound in his throat. He stands, then paces about, becoming jittery. The knife is on the table, but he is blocking my path to it. Ellie is also looking at it, and again I shake my head at her, hoping she’ll notice me telling her not to do anything stupid.
‘I don’t want money.’ Tom slugs water from a bottle into a camping kettle and puts it on the flame. ‘What will hurt him the most? After that, maybe then it’s about the money.’
I take time to think about this. It’s something I’ve considered many times before. What
would
hurt you, Marcus?
‘Daddy will pay anything,’ Ellie suddenly says in a calm and measured voice that makes me wonder where she’s mustered the bravery from. She stands up, soup sloshing on her jeans. ‘Just phone him. Tell him to leave a pile of cash somewhere and not to call the police. He’ll do anything you say. You’ll be rich, and we can go.’
Tom’s smile spreads slowly. He stares at her, then me. ‘Spunky.’ He nods approvingly, looking her up and down. ‘But it’s not that easy, sweetheart.’
‘But it
is
,’ Ellie says undefeated.
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