Copyright © 2018 by Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

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The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

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Captive Hearts

Matt Shaw

For Vix Kirkpatrick,

Thank you for always being close to hand with a kind word when that Black Dog comes nipping at my heels.

The world needs more people such as yourself.

Your Friend,

Matt 

PROLOGUE

The sun shone high in the clear blue skies; not a cloud in sight. A slight breeze whispered through the trees in the park, rustling the lush green leaves with its secrets. The sound of children laughing, as they played, carried over the fields where others enjoyed picnics, walked their dogs and played ball games with friends and family. It was the first week of the summer vacation and - coincidentally - the good weather and the people had come out in their droves to make the most of it whilst the latter lasted. The idyllic peace didn’t last.

From across the field and over the fence which boxed in the picturesque setting, a male scream came from the busy town centre. It was a mighty roar of pain and anger, laced with a blood curdling horror, which didn’t immediately drown out the sounds of happiness coming from the fields. Instead, the groups of people slowly fell silent as curiosity made them turn in the direction of the commotion, straining to see what was happening. A female scream accompanied the male’s pained cry. A higher pitch, hers was filled with not anger but immediate sorrow and guilt.

As her scream also carried across, all activity in the fields stopped. Even the breeze seemed to temporarily die down out of respect for what had happened.

Across the field, over the fence and on the other side of the now-stationary street, a crowd started to gather. Through the screams of both the man and the woman, people were shouting for help, unaware that the call had already been placed and that the paramedics were on the way. Too little, too late and - as the breeze picked up once again - it carried with it a tiny soul.

PART One

Tony Cassell

1.

I turn my head to the side and retch violently. My stomach feels as though someone is reaching into it through an unseen hole and twisting my intestines around in their heavy hands with tight grips.

I’m desperate to sit up so I can move from the bed I lie on. Desperate to find a toilet to vomit into without fear of being trapped there, lying in the warm stew of stomach bile. Yet as I continue to retch, pulling on the restraints which keep me secure here, nothing actually comes up. Despite feeling atrocious and groggy from whatever it was which had taken my consciousness, I’m still thankful for the lack of actual sick.

Slowly I struggle to calm my thoughts (how did I get here, what do they want with me, what must my family be thinking?) and - as I do so - the retching begins to subside and soon enough, it ceases altogether.

I lie on the bed in this small, dark room a moment and try and capture my breath. So much retching I thought I was going to starve my body of oxygen to the point of actually passing out so it’s nice to just lie here a moment and grab mouthfuls of air. This is how a fish must feel after the ordeal of being pulled from the water by a fisherman’s bait: The panic and gasping and flapping around, desperate for air, and then the welcome relief of being able to breathe once more, when tossed back into the water.

Even though I was no longer retching, or my body attempting to spew my guts up, my heart was still racing due to the fact I had no idea where I was or how I got here, although I can guess as to the latter…

It had been late at night and I had been walking towards my car after seeing a late showing of a film at my local cinema. It’s something I do every week, even if there is nothing on at the picture house which could be classed as my “usual type of film”. I pay a monthly subscription and I want to make the most of it so… I watch any and everything.

Even though there are parking spots closer to the cinema, I always park at the furthest point of the car park. This is intentional because it gives me time to walk from the building and over to the car with a cigarette. I know if I parked closer, I would be tempted to jump into the car with the cigarette still burning away in my hand and - with it being a fairly new car - I’d always promised myself I wouldn’t smoke in it. I loved that new car smell and didn’t want it tainted with the stink of smoke. That and - when I used to smoke in the last car - my wife had always bitched at me. I am a smoker and she’s an ex-smoker. Not a good combination.

My mind started to race with thoughts of my wife. Images of her smiling at me, the look in her eyes that I see often - the one which show how much she loves me without her needing to say it. The sound of her laughter ringing in my ears. She has an infectious giggle and - no matter my mood - if she starts to laugh, I can’t help but to do the same.

I tried to push the thoughts of her from my mind, not that I don’t want her there. Right now, I need to think about how I got here. I need to think about how I am going to get out of here. Dwelling on her, how much I miss her and whether I am going to see her beautiful face again won’t do anything but get me upset.

So I remember coming out of the cinema and sparking up a cigarette. I’d watched a comedy film where the filmmakers had seen fit to put all of the “laughs” in the trailer and - for the last thirty minutes of the dreary trash - I had been craving the sweet taste of nicotine. The first inhale of the cigarette is always the best and I held it in my lungs a little while longer before slowly exhaling. A couple came out of the cinema behind me and did a melodramatic cough as they walked past whilst giving me a “dirty” look. I couldn’t help but laugh. I hadn’t intentionally blown smoke for them to walk into but their reaction… People like that annoy me.

Slowly I meandered towards the far side of the car park to where I’d parked my car. When I got closer I saw a woman weeping at the side of what I had presumed to be her car. At first I was going to just finish up my smoke, climb into my car and then drive off but then I imagined my wife standing there. I would have wanted someone to stop and at least ask if she was okay.

I remember approaching the girl, flicking my cigarette into a nearby bush as I did so. And, I asked her if she was all right. She didn’t answer me so I just presumed that she hadn’t heard. I walked closer and asked again. Everything else happened so fast.

I heard the sound of steps behind me.

I heard her say she was sorry.

I felt a sharp prick in the side of my neck.

I remember hitting the tarmac and seeing that the girl was barefoot.

I remember my vision blurring to the point of not being able to make anything out.

Then, I remember waking up here with the unpleasant feeling of needing to vomit, mixed with the panic of being cuffed to this bed in this strange room…

I called out. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

2.

I woke up with a start and to the sound of a door opening at the top of a flight of stairs. The stairs ran up to a second floor along the far wall. They were bare and wooden.

‘Hello?’ I called out.

I was unsure how long I had been asleep. I don’t even recall falling asleep in the first place. I guess I’d just passed out from exhaustion.

The stairs creaked underfoot as whoever it was started their way down. My heart raced and continued to do so as the mystery guest was revealed to be the woman from the car park.

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

She reached the bottom of the stairs without a word. She turned to me and, for the first time, I noticed she was carrying a plate of food in her hand.

‘What do you want with me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Leave the room immediately!’ A speaker crackled to life from somewhere behind the walls. The suddenness and loudness of the voice made my heart skip a beat.

‘Who was that?’ I asked.

The woman didn’t answer though. Instead she hurried back up the stairs, taking the plate of food with her.

‘Wait…’ I called out.

From the top of the stairs, the door slammed shut and - again - I was alone.

‘Hello?’

I hoped for a response even though I doubted I would get one. And, when I didn’t get it, I couldn’t help but feel my anger start to rise.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ I shouted, ‘What do you fucking want.’

Despite my questions, still there was no answer.

‘Hello?’

As I laid there in an almost deafening silence, wondering if they could even hear me, I tried to think back to my life outside this room and whether I’d made any enemies who’d want to hurt me.

My day job isn’t the most glamorous. I work in an office-based environment selling life insurance to people and - occasionally - dealing with claims. It’s not the best of roles to have but I have worked my way up within the company to a level where I at least get my own office and the perks which come with the job are, on a positive note, also worth having. Like with any job, there are good days and there are bad. The worst is when you’re dealing with claims which you have to turn down. People already hurting from the fact that they have lost someone close to them finding themselves in the awkward position of not being covered by the insurance they’d been paying a monthly premium for. I’ve had people crying down the phone at me, I’ve had them shouting and - of course - I’ve had them swearing. There are also those who rant and rave at you only to hang up. Whilst their position doesn’t amuse me, I do find it funny when they call back into the office hoping to talk to someone else. Someone who, maybe, would give them different answers than the ones I’d already given. I find it funny because I am the one dealing with their claim so it doesn’t matter how many times they call in, they will always get me.

Now I have had a lot of arguments with people working that job, and I have had arguments in my personal life too - mostly over silly things which I struggle to recall now. But only last week someone was arguing with me because I had parked in their parking space. To be clear, I was at the local store to get some groceries and I was parked in one of the store’s many bays. These bays are not reserved and nor was I parked in a disabled spot and yet, apparently, this was still their space. Needless to say I told them to “fuck off”. But these people and these arguments… Would any of them really lead down this path? Could this really be someone taking out some kind of revenge on me? And, if it were, surely they would have made themselves known so I’d at least know how I had wronged them? What do I know? When someone upsets me, I tend to walk away. I try not to dwell on it, although sometimes this is easier said than done, but I certainly don’t sit there and plot how to get them back.

Life is too short.

Desperate to know what I was doing here, and more desperate to get out of here, I called out again in a hope that someone would come and give me answers.

‘What do you want?!’

Silence.

3.

I opened my mouth as she presented the forkful of food. I feel like a fucking child unable to feed myself and I hate it but I have little choice. When she had first sat down on the edge of the bed, plate of food in hand, I asked her if she could undo one of the cuffs so that I could keep some dignity and at least feed myself but my question was met with silence.

Bread and fish. The bread was from what I’d call a cheap loaf, similar to the shitty type of bread you’d buy as a youngster before going off to feed the ducks down the park, and the fish was - I guess - a bit of cod. Emphasis on “a bit”. That’s only a guess though. I’m not much of a fish eater and doubt I could tell the difference between cod and haddock. It’s definitely not tuna and it’s definitely not salmon; the latter being a fish I would recognise on a plate, despite not eating it myself. Too rich.

Whilst the bread was dry and stale, the fish was wet and almost slimy - as though it needed cooking a while longer. Given the fact it was my first meal since waking up the previous day though, I didn’t say anything about how it had been prepared. I’m so hungry that - right now - I would eat anything. The last thing I would want is for her to take the meal away from me out of spite.

I swallowed the mouthful down as she prepared the next.

‘Are you going to talk to me?’ I asked.

No response.

‘Going to tell me - perhaps - what I am doing down here?’

Still no response.

The woman wouldn’t even look me in the eye. If anything she seemed to actively avoid looking at me. What with the way she had been told to leave the room yesterday, and the way she was acting now - there was a small part of me which wondered whether she was even a part of this or - like me - she had been forced into this situation too. But then I remembered the car park and how she’d been a part of luring me over to a darker corner of the area. If she hadn’t been a part of this, she could have taken the time to try and run for freedom. Had the shoe been on the other foot and I had found myself in that situation - that’s what I would have done.

I’d rather die trying to run than be a prisoner.

That doesn’t mean she is a part of this though. People handle situations differently and all the time she isn’t talking to me - there is no way of knowing for sure. Not unless I try and get the truth from her, that is.

‘How come you’re helping him?’ I asked.

She looked at me instantly. There was something in her eyes which suggested she was happy that I had asked such a question. Perhaps she was pleased that I’d realised this was nothing to do with her and everything to do with him?

‘You know, if we work together…’

‘Shut the fuck up, cunt!’

Her abrupt words cut me off mid-sentence and took me by surprise. The look in her eyes - the relief - was gone and, in its place, a glint of anger.

She stood up, plate in hand, and immediately started towards the stairs.

‘Wait! I’m sorry!’

She stopped in her tracks but kept her back to me.

‘I didn’t mean anything.’

She didn’t move. I took this as a good sign.

‘I just don’t know what is happening and thought…’ I stopped talking. ‘Please - I won’t talk - just at least let me finish my meal. Please.’

Her shoulders raised up and then went back down again as though she had taken a deep breath. I passed no comment. She turned around and came back to the bed where she - once again - perched herself. She set the plate on her lap and started to prepare another forkful of food for me.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

The rest of the meal was done in silence.

4.

I don’t know her name but I see her twice a day. We are on day four now and still I have no idea why I am here, or what they want from me. She confuses me and I still do not know what part she plays in all of this. When she comes into the room she does so with a smile but - the way she spoke to me the other day - I do not know what is going on in her mind. I shouldn’t be surprised by that though. What kind of person can do this to another? Not a sane one is the only answer I can think. From what I have seen so far, her role in all of this is two-fold…

When I was unconscious, they had inserted a catheter down my urethra. I am pleased I was at least unconscious for that but still it’s not entirely comfortable. What it is doing though is allowing me the “luxury” of going to the toilet without wetting the bed. One of her aforementioned tasks, other than to feed me, is to ensure the waste run-off is emptied to prevent any potential spillage. I do not feel embarrassed when she checks. They put me here. This is their choice and so something they have to deal with. I do not say that though. For all I know, they could remove the catheter and just let me mess the bed. And speaking of which…

‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ I said to her.

She looked at me from the bottom of the stairs. I’d called out to her just as she was about to leave.

‘Number two,’ I added.

I was hoping she would finally let me off the bed so that I could sort myself out. Given the trouble they’d gone to for my urine, it was fair to say that they wouldn’t want me shitting the bed either. One way to avoid that? Let me out of the restraints and let me use the damned bathroom.

‘I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me go and take care of my business,’ I told her.

Without a word she walked across the room and pulled the blanket up so that the lower half of my body was exposed to the stale air. She then dropped to her knees. From beneath the bed, she pulled out a bed-pan and then stood up. It was hard to hide my disappointment from her as she made me lift myself from the mattress in order to slide the pan under me.

The pan was cool against my bare skin and uncomfortable beneath me but - again - it was better than messing the bed and being forced to lay in it.

The last shred of dignity I had was about to be taken from me. In an attempt to keep it, I looked at her and asked, ‘Can you leave the room a moment?’

She shook her head but she did at least turn her back. As my body started to relax into letting it happen, I closed my eyes and tried to think of happier times. Easier said than done knowing what I was doing and that this woman was standing but a few feet away. Despite my best efforts to keep it, the last of my dignity had gone.

Only when the pan was removed and she’d left the room did I start to cry uncontrollably. Not just because I’d lost the last shred of dignity I had but because I was missing my family and - now - was starting to doubt if I’d ever see them again. What somehow made it all worse is that I have zero idea as to why I am here. If only I knew what I had done. If only I knew who was in charge - for want of a better word. Perhaps I would have been able to talk to them? Perhaps I would have been able to try and offer them something in exchange for my freedom? All the time I was in the dark - I was in no position to negotiate.

Tears of sorrow turned to tears of anger.

Knowing I was alone, I screamed out in frustration and anguish. Even with all the noise I was making - if only to purge my anger - I knew no one would come to see what the commotion was about. I knew I was alone again until the morning, when she’d come back with my daily ration of fish and bread. Why fish and bread?

Fuck this place.

Fuck them.

5.

There are no windows down here. There’s no clock either. I have no idea what the time is and - when I am lucky enough to fall asleep - I’m unsure as to whether I have been sleeping for hours or minutes. My only way of guessing at a time is when I see her with my food and when I see her again for her other duties. I’m not sure whether it is or isn’t a blessing, not being aware of the time - or even the day… Would it make it easier to know how long I had been down here, or would it make it worse? Either way, I have no idea what day it even is anymore. I do know that my wife will be out there looking for me though. Not just her either but my friends will be too, and the authorities of course.

People close to me will know it is completely against my character to just disappear without a word to anyone. They’d also know it is just as unusual for me not to have my phone on me, to answer calls, or make calls giving the phone company a way of pin-pointing my approximate location. My wife, she always complained that I’d never go anywhere without my phone. If I had a pound for every time she’d ask what was so important that I needed to be on my phone, I wouldn’t be here. I would be somewhere hot and exotic.

Setting aside the family stuff though - there was also the fact that I was an active member of the community. My working hours were Monday to Friday and my weekends were my own to enjoy, doing whatever I saw fit - be it in the house or out and about with the family. One thing I never missed though was football practice with my son every Sunday. He’d play on the team and I’d help referee the matches. My lack of presence there, or warning them that I couldn’t make it at the very least, would definitely go noticed too. Another reason for people to look for me, if such a reason was needed. But then - how long had I been here? Had I already missed a match day or were we still a few days off from having one?

‘You know they’ll be looking for me?!’ I shouted up to no one in particular. By now I knew they couldn’t hear me. Even if they could, I knew they would ignore me. Especially since - in the first few days of being down here - I had shouted and screamed and yelled until my voice was obliterated. I screamed so damned much that - if they could have heard me - they would have stormed down here to silence me any way they could have. If roles were reversed, I certainly would have come down to silence such a din.

‘They won’t just let my disappearance go!’

Even if they couldn’t hear me, it still made me feel better for saying it. What’s more, the sound of my own voice broke up the almost unbearable silence. I’d not experienced this level of quiet for years. The office is always alive with the sound of people talking and phones ringing and - at home - the televisions are always on in the kids’ rooms or they’re arguing or my wife is pottering around doing whatever. There’s never silence, as much as I would occasionally yearn for it. Funny, now I have it, I’d give anything to hear the sound of the kids arguing about whatever trivial thing had bothered them this time.

‘They’ll keep looking for me until they find a body!’

Is that what it was going to come down to? I wondered. Will my captors one day grow tired of me and put me out of my misery? Will they take the body and dispose of it just for some person to find whilst they’re out and about walking their dog? Will my wife get a phone call asking to come down to the hospital to identify me?

My heart sunk as I imagined her reaction to seeing me laid out on the slab, cold and grey. Her husband gone and leaving behind a slowly decaying corpse; a shell of the man she’d married. As the scenario continued to play through in my mind, my gut twisted and I couldn’t help but to retch violently.

How had my life come this? And for why?

6.

As the days dragged on, I imagined my wife and children more and more. The thoughts started kind; pleasant memories pulled up from the past, ready for me to relive whilst I was unable to create new ones. They didn’t stay that way though.

As the time passed and I feared more and more that I wouldn’t see them again, the memories disappeared. Instead of reliving my past, I imagined my wife’s future. I imagined my family’s future…

My two children, Jamie and Harry, calling another man “dad”, going on trips with him and my wife playing the happy couple, having him help with their homework, him making decisions about their futures, him congratulating them when they graduate, him acting like the good father with me but a distant memory… And what memory would I be to them? If no body is found, I’d simply be the asshole-real-father who disappeared without a trace. The so-called-dad who doesn’t love them which couldn’t be further from the truth.

Then of course there is my wife and the unwanted thoughts I am plagued with regards to her and this other man.

I can see her smiling at him and looking at him like she had once looked upon me.

I can see her laughing with him, play fighting with him…

I can see her kissing him.

I can imagine myself as the other guy… I can see myself looking down and seeing her on her knees looking up at me… His dick in her mouth.

I can see her riding him.

I can see her cuddling up next to him on a cold winter’s night. The open fire blazing away and a mutually chosen film on the television.

I can see them cuddling up in bed.

I can hear her voice - clear as day - saying that she loves him and, despite not even knowing him or what he sounds like, I can hear a male voice saying it back to her.

My blood runs cold at the thought and I can’t help but to feel sick to my stomach. I tried desperately to turn my mind back to happier occasions - and ones which actually happened as opposed to being figments of my imagination such as the thoughts I was currently having. My mind refused to budge though. Instead, a little voice spoke up asking me how I knew this wasn’t going to be the case for the future? My wife was a pretty woman. There was no way she would not move on with her life when her husband ran away.

‘I didn’t run away!’ I shouted to the imaginary voice.

That’s not what she will come to believe.

Despite my best intentions to stay strong, my eyes started to well up at the thought of losing my family. It wasn’t long before the tears started to roll down my cheeks.

The little voice was right though. There was no way my wife wouldn’t move on with her life. If she thought I’d run off, she would be upset for a while I’m sure… But - eventually - there would come a time when she’d be happy enough to move on. And - missing a father figure - I am sure the children would just be as happy too, as shitty as the thought is. The thing was, if I couldn’t be there for them, I would want them to have someone who could be there but… It’s just… I want that person to be me. The chance that it might not be is killing me.

At the top of the stairs, the door opened and the woman stepped down onto the wooden landing. I desperately tried to stop the waterworks, embarrassed that she’d see me at my weakest. She walked down the stairs as I continued to sniff the runny nose away and - at the foot of the stairs - she turned and looked at me. Even though I knew she was aware of my crying, I turned away from her. One thing for her to hear the tears, another to see them.

‘I can come back in a minute,’ she said.

Without another word, she turned and went back up the stairs. The door closed behind her.

7.

More days went by without anything different happening. The meal was the same, her silence was the same. She would come. She would go. My mind would continue teasing me with thoughts of my wife and her new family, living the happy ever after that I should have been giving her.

Lying here, unable to move, I could literally feel myself wasting away. My back was sore from lying in the same spot, my wrists tender from the cuffs and my ankles the same. The stink in the room, both from stale piss, the smell of shit and my own lacking personal hygiene was yet another way in which I was being tortured, despite my best intentions to try and ignore it all.

The more things remained the same though, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I was here until I either did waste away to nothing or until they grew tired of “caring” for me - for want of a better word. Nothing would change until I got to talk to whoever was keeping me here. Not the woman. I don’t think it is her at all, although I am still unsure of her role in all of this. I mean the man who I’d heard speak that time, over the hidden speaker. He is the one that I want to talk to. He is the one I need to convince to let me go… At least talk to my family to let them know that I am okay and that I love them… Although - thinking about it - I’m not sure how much that would help me; to hear their voices and yet not be able to see them, nor to touch them. I’d give anything to hold my family right about now.

Anything.

Lying here, I have nothing to give.

I’m unsure why I am being kept alive but I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I stopped cooperating. Maybe - just a thought - if I refused to eat, the man would present himself finally? Surely after all this, they wouldn’t just let me starve myself to death? Surely, if I act up, he would have to step in to take charge of the situation?

I have nothing to lose.

If they let me starve myself, I am at least free.

If they want me to live, he’ll have to come in here himself.

I thought the situation through a moment and - like that - my mind was made up. I’d stop eating the shitty food. I’ll act as though I want to die. I’ll see if he - whoever he is - finally comes down to see me for himself. In my current predicament there is no other way.

Tomorrow, I’ll refuse to eat.

PART Two

Stephanie

1.

I had never been the most beautiful of women but neither was I what would be called, or thought of as, “ugly”. My hair was once a dark brunette and often looked silky - and even lighter in colour - when lit it shone, it due to the fact that I liked to keep it always clean. My eyes, once my favourite feature, used to sparkle a crystal-like blue. My frame, both petite and athletic from the good diet I chose to eat and the many mornings spent in the gym before work. Work itself was a job I loved, taking the skills I’d self-taught myself with regards to the application of make-up and applying them to some of the most beautiful women in the world before they themselves took to the stage in the latest designer collections. With a job I liked and comfortable in my own skin, I could always find a reason to wake with a smile. I was aware the world could be a cruel place in which to reside and I tried my best to ensure that I sought out the good in all situations and all the people who entered my life. I was a positive woman. I liked that version of “me”, but sitting here, in this stark room, looking into the cracked mirror, I have long since come to terms with the fact that that version of “me” is dead with little to no chance of ever being resurrected.

The positive attitude is gone. The once sparkling eyes now dulled and seemingly devoid of life and personality. My skin, once smooth and cared for, cracked and aged with a stress I find hard to bear. My hair, greasy and hanging in tangled lumps of matted brown laced with the finest of greys and silvers; again, before my time and no doubt brought about by the stress. My frame is still as petite as ever, something which can never be changed, but gone is the athletic look I’d once achieved. My stomach seems permanently bloated from the diet of mostly bread and fish - the carbs in the bread being the issue. I’ve asked for something else to eat but he just mutters that it was her favourite and that he’d found her fixation with it weird too. He then drops the conversation, unwilling to divulge more. The muscles in my arms now gone and the arms themselves stick-like. I look at myself - missing my once cherished confidence - and I see a mess. I see a gaunt, frail, ugly woman. I see an embarrassment and - had they not dried long ago - it would be all too easy to break down into floods of tears.

I cannot recall the last time I wept.

Hating the shadow of a woman looking at me, I turned my back on the mirror. Everything in my life is a punishment now, from the lack of clothes to the uncomfortable bed I have been given - even though it had been presented as a “reward”. The mirror is no different. The mirror had also been given as a reward for being good and doing as instructed but - like the bed before it - it offered no comfort by having it in the room. If anything, it just made the situation seem worse. Beforehand, I had no idea what toll my living arrangements were having upon my body. Now, I cannot escape from seeing the truth - and I hate it.

Every day, another part of me seems to have changed for the worse and, every day, I am another step further from the woman I used to be.

There is no one to blame but myself.

2.

My bedroom is not a comfortable room into which I can retreat from the cruelness of my life now. There are no carpets and the floorboards underfoot are stained with years of neglect. Splinters poke from the cracks, many having already found their way into my bare skin. The bed I sleep on is as old as time itself. The mattress, on which I spend the restless nights, is only a few centimetres thicker than what you would find on a camping bed. As a result, you can feel every bed spring sticking into your back and I would be surprised if there weren’t scratches and indentation marks from them imbedded into my skin. I once put the mattress on the floor for a night but my actions were met with severe punishments and screams of how ungrateful I was for not using the bed. I begged for forgiveness but my words fell upon deaf ears and I was still forced to endure violence.

As I laid on the floor, crumpled and broken, he had set the mattress back onto the bed and warned me not to move it again or the consequences would be harsher. As if to prove his point, I was also given less bread when my one meal time came around. Because I had been given less bread that day, my rations were pushed back by a day so - by the end of the loaf allotted to me - I was not only eating it stale but also sprinkled with a blue-green mould. Even so, I did not complain for fear of angering him further.

The only other items within the small box-room are the table the cracked mirror rests upon, a wooden and somewhat rickety chair, a closet and a clock, hanging on the wall opposite the mirror, so that I can keep a track of the time, to ensure I am not late for my chores. The clock ticks loudly with each passing minute. It is a noise designed, I am sure, to ensure my time in here is well and truly noticed. Tick, tick, tick… My life passing one minute at a time. Speaking of “time”, my chores are due to start and I cannot be late.

I got up from the rickety chair and walked across to the closet. Just as everything else is rotted and decaying in the room, the closet is no exception. The doors are missing, it smells of wet wood and I am sure - given a shove - the structure would crumble with ease. With that in mind, I am careful when pulling my clothes which hang across the wooden rail inside.

I reached in and pulled out a hanger on which my day’s attire hung. All the dresses are the same - simple white flowy dresses which come to just below my knees. They’re not something that I would choose for myself and - as the weather starts to cool - they’re not the warmest, especially so early in the morning when the sun hasn’t had a proper chance to shine. I slide the dress over my head and down my body. Until chores are due to start, the bedroom door remains locked and there is no chance to wash first. With regards to the underwear situation, I have only ever been given three pairs each week. They too are white, plain and simple and also not something I would choose for myself but I am at least grateful that they fit.

Without a brush with which to comb my hair, all I can do is run my fingers through it in an effort to try and make myself look a little more presentable. Every day I find my hair becoming that little bit more knotted than before and my scalp itches from the grease. He once made promise of a bath, or shower, but - since mentioning it that one time - it hasn’t been brought back into conversation and I am reluctant to bring it up myself. I worry that, if he knows I want it, he will somehow use that knowledge against me.

As presentable as I can be given my circumstances, I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the door lock to click across, once again giving me freedom to move around the rest of the house. Or rather, what’s open for me to walk around.

Right on schedule, the lock clicked and the door opened for me. I stood up. Don’t want to keep him waiting. Or rather, I know I shouldn’t keep him waiting.

3.

The house is unlike anything I have seen before. There is sound-proofing on all walls and the few windows I am able to find are bricked up. From the look of things, he has built a fake wall separating my living quarters from - what I presume to be - his.

Spread over three floors, the majority of the rooms are vacant. On the third floor: My bedroom has a few furnishings, there is another (half) of a bedroom which is completely empty and - more alarmingly - a third which is the only one which anyone seems to have made any attempt to decorate. In that room the floors are carpeted with a thick carpet and the walls painted in a baby pink. There are a few posters of groups such as One Direction and JLS. In the corner of the room, a bed which looks far comfier than the one issued to me. I’d only been in that room once and was warned not to venture back in there again unless I wanted to be punished. There is also a bathroom with a shower unit installed but - turning the taps - this doesn’t appear to be working, just as the toilet - now stinking from use - doesn’t appear to flush.

The second floor has a kitchen area and - built into the wall separating my living quarters from his - there is a hatch which he’d occasionally open to pass through various dishes. Sometimes these dishes are already dirty. These are the ones I am instructed to clean before ringing a bell built into the wall next to the hatch. When I ring the bell, the hatch opens and he has been on the other side, ready to take the clean plates and utensils back. If I do not clean them properly, I am made to redo them and punished with no meal.

My meals are also passed to me through this opening - always at the same time, which is morning.

‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,’ he’d once said to me. It is the only time he feeds me and so I forced myself to eat at that time although - before I found myself here - I would rarely eat breakfast because it felt as though my stomach had yet to wake up. I still find myself struggling to eat properly first thing in the morning.

There is another room, larger but - again - split down the middle, on the second floor. In this room there is another rickety chair and a small television. The cable for the television disappears through the wall which is how I know our living arrangements have been split. When he no longer wishes for me to watch the television - usually this is allowed for an hour in the evening - he flicks a switch by the wall-plug on his side, instantly killing the power. Sometimes I just sit there, looking at the blank screen, wishing the switch could actually turn my heart off, killing me instantly in the process.

Just as there is no carpet or comfort upstairs, there is little on this floor too and yet - when I had first found myself here - he’d pointed out that it was comfier than any other prison. There, he said, I would only have had a six by six cell. Here I have my own room and - as such - should be grateful.

At the far end of the hallway, separating the rooms on the second floor, there is a doorway which has been filled in. I have often found myself standing there, looking at it and wondering what was on the other side. Although this is the second floor to me, I believe that - in reality - this is actually the ground floor of a house and that the next floor down is actually a cellar. It would explain the smell of damp that lingers down there and the lack of windows. If that is the case, I can only imagine that this once-doorway used to lead out into the real world. Perhaps it once led to the driveway, or maybe this was the back of the house and beyond the filled in space was a beautiful garden? On these occasions I would let my mind contemplate what the garden would look like and I would imagine sitting there with the sun beaming down upon my face, warming my insides. But I wouldn’t allow it for long as I knew it would be something I’d never get to see for real.

There was no sense torturing myself further.

4.

In the real world my alarm would wake me a little after six in the morning. I would never shower first thing in the morning. Instead, I would brush my teeth, tie my hair back and throw on my gym gear. Grabbing my pre-packed bag from where it lay, close to the front door, I would then head to the gym for a spin session and work-out. I had different work-out plans depending on what day of the week it was. After an hour of sweating, I would then shower using the gym’s facilities and I’d make myself more presentable for whatever challenges the day was to throw at me. My breakfast, for want of a better word, would be a protein shake - again, prepared the evening before - and I would drink it on the way to whichever client I was seeing that day. Sometimes I would visit people in their homes to do their make-up and other days I would see them at my own home. No matter where I was working though, I would always go to the gym. It was ritual to me.

This - where I am now - is not the real world.

I walked through to what I presumed to be - if not split into two rooms - the kitchen area and, as per his initial instructions when I had first found myself here, knocked on the hatch. There I waited as, on the other side, I heard the familiar sound of the locks being moved. Locks, I guessed, which were intended to stop me from opening the hatch when he potentially wasn’t around to stop me from trying to get away.

‘Morning,’ he said in his usual gruff tone. Before I had a chance to answer, he passed through the plates and utensils he’d clearly used the previous day. ‘Clean these,’ he said. I took them from him and put them next to the sink. ‘Here,’ he said again.

I about-turned and saw that he was holding another plate through the hatch. On this one was a piece of bread and half a piece of fish. Trying to be grateful, I took it from him and set it to the side. I was fully aware that there’d be another passed through any minute now. One for me and one for the other guest.

‘Thank you,’ I said as he handed over the second plate.

The plates were made from plastic, as was the cutlery he always handed them over with. The colours varied but were always neon; a set you’d purchase for outside use at barbecues or if you needed more dishes for some kind of children’s party. It was never discussed but I guessed he preferred me to handle plastics only as there was less chance of doing harm to either him, my other guest or myself. He has no plans on letting us leave any time soon.

He didn’t acknowledge my “thanks” and slammed the hatch shut. Within seconds, the unwelcome sound of locks being set once again. I wished he would talk to me. I wished he would tell me what he wanted from me, other than to punish me - that part I understood. There was also a part of me which couldn’t blame him but at the same time, there must have been more to it than that. I always wonder - will he ever tell me what his plans are?

I set the second plate of food down on the side. Using the plastic knife I cut the fish in half again, on my plate, and transferred one side of it over to the second plate, increasing the portion side. The other guest looks weaker than I feel and I know he would appreciate it. Not that I am allowed to talk to him. That is very forbidden and I know - when I go down to see him - that we are always being watched. One time I said ‘good morning’ to him, I was beaten heavily.

I quickly ate what was left on my plate. A little slither of fish and a small amount of bread, it doesn’t take me long to devour it - not that I am keen to savour it. I do not know how many days I have been in here now; they blend into one seemingly non-stop nightmare. What I do know is that, if I ever get out, I will never eat fish nor bread again for any amount of money in the world.

I put my plate on the side, next to the other dirty plates, and then reached for my friend’s plate. I call him my friend because he is in the same boat as me. We both have something in common in that we are both prisoners here. Anyway, even if we aren’t friends for real - it’s nice to pretend to have at least one here. The possibility of a friend, even one I can’t talk to, is better than none. It offered a little ray of light in this new and dark world.

With his plate in hand, I walked through to the hallway. There are two more doors in the hallway, not including the one which brought me into the “kitchen”. One led through to the television room and the other down another flight of wooden stairs to where the other guest was kept. Using my spare hand, I opened the door and stepped onto the narrow landing space before heading down to where he lay upon his bed.

It hadn't gone unnoticed that his bed was more comfortable looking than the one appointed to me but I feel no jealousy or bitterness towards him. Whereas he might have the comfier sleeping arrangement, I at least have free reign of the house. He is handcuffed to the bed by both wrists and ankles, unable to move.

5.

I see him twice times a day just to check on him and ensure everything is okay. Not being allowed to talk to him, I had struggled on how to act around him initially. I wouldn’t look him in the eye and would get out of there as quickly as possible, slamming the door shut behind me. It was clear from how he spoke to me that he thought I was a part of why he was down there. I guess I am the reason he is down there but - I never wanted this. I didn’t want it for him nor did I want this for myself and, if I could, I would do anything to change it. Still, knowing he was blaming me for being trapped down there, I soon changed the way I acted when I visited.

As I walked down the stairs I looked him in the eyes and smiled at him. I’m unsure whether he can see through my smile and see that I am just as trapped as he is but, either way, I hope that it at least brings him some kind of comfort. From a personal point of view, I know that I would give anything to see a smile from time to time - even if it was being faked for my benefit.

Normally when I walked down the stairs, he said something but not today. Today he didn’t even look at me as I took his breakfast over to him. I sat on the edge of his bed and rested his plate in my lap. Without a word between us, I cut his fish into smaller pieces. Once cut up, I stabbed some onto the fork and moved it close to his mouth. Usually he’d open his mouth and take a bite of what was on offer. There was obvious reluctance on his part but hunger forced his hand (or rather “mouth”). Today though he moved his head to the side which - in turn - moved his mouth away from the fork. I hesitated a moment, unsure of what to do. I moved the fork closer to his mouth but, again, he moved away from it.

‘Fuck off,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

I looked at him. I wish he could see, through the look in my eyes, that none of this is my fault. My actions had led him to being here, us to being here, but it wasn’t my fault. None of this was intentional. Today though he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. Instead, he kept his gaze on the wall over my shoulder.

In all the times bringing him food, this was the first time he’d ever refused to eat it and I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to tell him to eat or was I supposed to let him starve? Would either way result in a beating? My instructions were simple enough, keep him alive, but what if he didn’t want to be kept alive?

My mind raced with a million and one questions. What if this was the start of a hunger strike? What would happen to me if something were to happen to him? Would whatever sick game this is be over? Would I suddenly be freed and if that is the case - isn’t it better that I let him die? Would I be blamed and, as a result, be punished? Or - the worst thought - if he dies am I no longer of use and, therefore, would I be killed? But then, if I was to be killed… That’s no worse than wishing the switch for the television to kill me too. Thinking along those lines maybe it is better to push his buttons to make him mad? I worry about the beatings but - if I push him hard enough - maybe he’ll just kill me and be done with it? Words whispered to me as I lay semi-conscious from a previous beating came to mind, ‘I’ll make your life a fucking misery… You think this is bad? You’ve seen nothing of what I am truly capable.’

An unseen speaker crackled. ‘Leave the room.’

Immediately I put the fork back on the plate and lifted that from my lap. I stood up and walked towards the stairs.

‘Fuck you,’ the other guest said.

I headed up the stairs, not wanting to look in his direction as I knew the language and venom was aimed at me just as much as it was aimed at the voice on the other end of the intercom.

He shouted louder, ‘Fuck you!’

At the top of the stairs, I turned into the hallway.

‘FUCK…’

I closed the door, plunging him back into what I presumed was darkness. From the kitchen, I heard the sound of the bell which was used to summon my attention. Not wishing to keep him waiting, I walked back through to the hatch only to see that it was already open.

‘Pass me the plate,’ he said.

Knowing better than to disobey him, I did as I was told and passed the plate through. I expected the hatch to slam shut, as was usually the case, but this time it didn’t.

‘I will be coming through later. When I next ring the bell, I want you to retire to the television room. As a reward, I will ensure the television is on for you. You will then not come out of the room until you hear the sound of the bell again. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes,’ I told him.

The hatch slammed shut and - again - I was alone to carry out my chores.

6.

I didn’t mind doing his washing up. The worst part of it was when he left scraps of food on his plate. Unsure of whether he’d half-masticated it before spitting it back out, I never tried any of it - no matter how desperate I was for food that didn’t consist of either bread or fish. It wasn’t even the temptation which made it bad though. It was the fact that I have to scrape the left-overs into a black sack I’d been provided. With there being no lidded-bin to put it in, the sack stunk the make-shift kitchen out with its heavy scent of rotting meats and vegetables and, even when the sacks were full, he wouldn’t immediately take them from me. The only positive I could bring to mind, about being trapped in this house for so long, was that at least now I was growing accustomed to the stench.

The washing up itself never took very long given the fact there was never too much to clear away. My plate, the other guest’s plate (when not taken away by the home owner) and - of course - whatever else I was passed by way of the hatch. In the real world I hated washing up. It’s why, when I moved into my first home, I made one of my first purchases a dishwasher. Here though, in this Hell, it gave me something to do. Something to pass away the seemingly-slower time. The added bonus was that I could use a little of the water and soap suds to give myself a good a wash as I could get away with, ensuring I didn’t anger him for finding a way around the broken shower upstairs. It might not have been an ideal solution but it was better than nothing and it was remarkable how even that, such a little wash, could go some way to making me feel more human.

My mind drifted to the other guest: Cuffed to the bed in a star-fish position, he wasn’t able to wash himself and neither was I permitted to help him in that regards - not that I think I would want to. The only thing I was allowed to do down there was to feed him, empty the bucket which his catheter emptied into and, the worst job, remove any waste from the bed-pan which I’d occasionally have to put beneath him. He stunk of days old sweat, stale urine and the hint of faeces, all of which lingered in the heavy air.

I felt sorry for him down there. The smell in the room was unbearable. There were no windows so no way of letting in some fresh air. But then, maybe he felt about the room as I feel about the bin up here? Maybe he too had grown accustomed to the stink and it wasn’t as bad as it was when it had first happened? Looking how he looked today though, I don’t know. He looked as though he’d lost all will to live and now there wasn’t much else that could upset him anymore. He looked broken. I guess it’s the same for me in some ways? Once I cried every minute of the day and now the tears are dry and I feel resigned to my fate. I guess we are the same in that way.

It suddenly dawned on me that I hadn’t emptied his bucket nor offered him use of the bed-pan today. Given both tasks are jobs appointed to me, I don’t want to get in trouble for not doing as I was supposed to but I had been called from the room so - technically - it wasn’t my fault. I somehow doubt that he will care though. It never takes much for him to be willing to beat me, or even just to hit me once.

I dried my hands down the front of my dress (there’s no tea-towels in the room with which to dry myself) and walked back to the hatch. With a nervous hand, I knocked as I cleared my throat in preparation to confess I’d not completed all of my tasks. As I waited for him to come back to the hatch, I found myself hoping to find him in a good mood today.

A forgiving mood, I hope.

‘What is it?’

His voice came through the hatch without him first opening it. I leaned down closer so that he could hear me speak through it without having to shout and risk him thinking I was being “angry” with him.

‘I just thought you should know,’ I said, ensuring my voice was calm and respectful, ‘I haven’t done all of my tasks today.’

I paused, waiting for him to ask me what I hadn’t done. When he didn’t speak, I continued.

‘I haven’t emptied his bucket or given him the chance to use the bed-pan,’ I said.

There was silence.

‘Can you hear me?’ I called through, slightly louder.

‘When I am ready to come in, I will ring the bell. When I do, I want you to go through to the television room and watch the T.V. I will then notify you when you’re able to leave that room again with the sound of the bell, or I shall simply turn the set off. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes but did you want me to go back downstairs and complete my other tasks?’

With the exception of my own heartbeat, there was silence.

‘Hello?’

From within the other room, the television flickered to life. The sound of people talking - from whatever show was on - took me by surprise and caused my heart to skip a beat. Aware that this meant he was no longer standing the other side of the hatch, I walked through to the television room. Before taking the seat on the wooden chair, I closed the door behind me. I sat, eyes fixed to the television but brain failing to take onboard what was playing, and I waited. Unsure of what his intentions were, and despite knowing he wasn’t coming in to see me, my heart continued to race at an uncomfortable pace.

7.

The television had long since turned off, my signal that I could leave the room. With nothing else to do as of yet, and nowhere vastly different from this room to be in, I remained seated on the old wooden chair with my eyes fixed on the bricked up window. With the house mostly silent I’d often use this time to try and escape the harshness of my reality by letting my mind drift off to happier times, and imagining what may be occurring out there now, beyond the bricks. Even when watching the television on my allotted times, this was the only time I really managed to escape my surroundings.

I had never been much of a party animal. My evenings were spent mostly staying in with a bottle of wine and either a good book or something entertaining to watch on Netflix although, in more recent times, the majority of the time was spent surfing both the Kindle store and Netflix channel for something worthy. By the time I had found something suitable, I’d often be too tired to actually bother starting it. But then, before I came here, it had been the busy period at work. During the summer months was when people chose to get married, never mind the fashion shows, and so I was often booked weeks in advance and my days were long with multiple people to make-up. There’d be the bride, her bridesmaids and sometimes even the mother of the bride too. We’d start early and work flat out right to the minute they needed to be in the car. Then, I’d go off to another event to sort make-up there too… By the time I got home, my reading time turned to my “snoozing on the sofa” time with a half-drunk glass of white.

‘It’s no life,’ my mother would say to me from time to time when she asked what I’d been up to. In her mind I should have been courting someone, probably even married by now. I was in my thirties and she did like to remind me that my biological clock was ticking. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of a husband but all the men I’d met had ended up being dicks. And as for children? I’d only really want a child with someone I truly loved. I wouldn’t want to be a single mum raising the kid by myself - not that I couldn’t do it if I had to. I just wouldn’t want that for my child. I would want them raised in a loving family, not spending half the time with this parent and the other half with the other whilst being pulled from pillar to post through the holiday seasons.

The mental images playing through - sitting by a Christmas Tree, excited child on my lap, as my perfect man brought in the presents - dissolved from my mind as reality leaked back in at the thought of that little girl laying there in the middle of the road. Her eyes open and seemingly staring at me. The blood coming from her ear. Him, standing there screaming over my car’s running engine. The panicked crowds gathering. The voices, calling for help. The man standing there screaming. My screaming. The girl’s piercing stare. The wailing siren of the ambulance in the distance… I closed my eyes hard as I tried to block the thoughts from my mind. I’d give anything to turn the clock back and change what had happened but I can’t and - at some point of every day - my mind likes to remind me of that.

All of this is my fault. Despite my mind playing everything though in graphic detail and despite feeling a tremendous sadness for what I had done, still there were no tears. The lack of which caused me to hate myself that little bit more, not that I believed that would ever be even possible, given how I felt about what I’d done. And, believe me, I do hate myself. I hate myself more than I could ever fully describe.

I looked back to the television and wished that it would suddenly come back to life. A wish that he’d flick the switch back on his side of the wall but I knew he wouldn’t. I’d already had longer than usual with the set because he’d wanted to come over and - for that - I should have been grateful. It’s just, now, the television would really help to distract my treacherous mind from reminding me what I’d done all those months ago. Still, there was no sense wishing for the impossible. The television wouldn’t come back on because he had no reason to “reward” me… With a heavy sigh, I got up and left the room. A hope that - somehow - a change of scenery would help me leave behind past thoughts and emotions.

Wrong.

I was in the bedroom laying on the bed. When I had first been brought to this room, I’d been thrown upon the floor. There had been no bed and no mattress, just a shitty, stained blanket to cover myself with. I remember the day like it was yesterday. I was huddled in the corner, fearful for a death that - now - I would have welcomed. He had been standing in the doorway, staring at me with a look of pure hatred I’d never experienced before, nor wish to experience again. Even now - when he comes face to face with me, even if for a beating - he doesn’t look at me as he had that first night… Looking back, I can’t fathom the amount of restraint it must have taken for him not to hurt me further. I should be grateful but - now - I wish he’d taken it all the way right there and then and just killed me. It would certainly be better than this.

That night I apologised to him.

I didn’t say sorry because he’d plucked me from my life and brought me to this hell-hole. I said sorry because I genuinely meant it and if I were to say it again to him today - it would be because I mean it still. I am sorry and will never not be. I hate what I did but it was an accident. I didn’t see her there. What had she even been doing there in the first place?

I felt a bubbling in my stomach and wanted to vomit through the guilt but nothing came up, not that I wanted it to.

One of my eyes welled up for the first time in ages at the recent thoughts of the little girl and how she’d looked as she laid there. Not just how she looked though but how he had looked too - not at the time of the accident but when he was standing in the doorway; that first night he had brought me here. There had been such a look of anger in his eyes but as soon as I had started apologising, as soon as he had seen the state I got myself into and the tears coming from my eyes… The look of hate disappeared from his eyes and was replaced with the look of a broken man riddled with remorse and loss. Standing in the doorway, he first had looked intimidating and I had feared for my life but - when that look went and the grief was seen, he looked broken.

I had done that to him.

At the time, he’d raised a finger at me to shush me quiet. Worried about what he was going to do, I had stopped talking and just stayed there, huddled up and shaking. He had simply said, ‘I don’t forgive you.’ With that, he had turned and walked from the room. He had closed the door behind him and I had heard it lock.

I don’t know how many days ago that was. Time has stood still here. I don’t know if he will ever forgive me and I don’t know if he will ever let me go. For all I know, I am destined to die here…

I just hope it is sooner rather than later.

PART Three

The Doctor

That Day.

The sun shone high in the clear blue skies; not a cloud in sight. A slight breeze whispered through the park’s trees, rustling the lush green leaves with its secrets. The sound of children laughing, as they played, carried over the fields where others enjoyed picnics, walked their dogs and played ball games with friends and family. It was the first week of the summer vacation and - coincidentally - the good weather and the people had come out in their droves to make the most of it whilst the latter lasted. The idyllic peace didn’t last.

From across the field and over the fence which boxed in the picturesque setting, a male scream came from the busy town centre. It was a mighty roar of pain and anger, laced with a blood curdling horror, which didn’t immediately drown out the sounds of happiness from the fields. Instead, the groups of people slowly fell silent as curiosity made them slowly turn to the direction of the commotion, straining to see what was happening. A female scream accompanied the male’s pained cry. A higher pitch, hers was filled with not anger but immediate sorrow and guilt.

Soon enough, as her scream also carried across, the fields were still from activity. Even the breeze seemed to temporarily die down out of respect for what had happened.

Across the field, over the fence and to the other side of the now-stationary street, a crowd started to gather. Through the screams of both the man and the woman, people were shouting for help to be called unaware that the call had already been placed and the paramedics were on the way. Too little, too late and - as the breeze picked up once again - it carried with it a tiny soul.

1.

‘I recognise you,’ he said as I entered the room.

His words took me by surprise. Given the circumstances, I hadn’t been allowed to work with him. All I had done was observe to ensure everything went smoothly.

I had come to see why he wasn’t willing to eat his breakfast and I knew a conversation would take place between us. I also knew he probably wasn’t intending to starve himself either. It is, after all, a horrible way to die. With regards to the conversation we’d have, I didn’t mind opening up to him. I figured now was a good a time as any to let him know who I was and what he meant to me.

I got to the bottom of the stairs and just stood there a moment, unsure of where to even start this conversation.

‘Where do I know you from?’ he asked.

Ah. So he recognises my face but not who I am.

‘You don’t recall?’ I asked.

‘What do you want from me?’

I crossed the room closer to him. Even though I had dabbed a little Vicks Menthol Rub on my top lip, I could still smell the foul odour hanging in the air. Disgusting.

‘You’re ungrateful,’ I told him.

‘What are you talking about?’

Even though I knew he was tired, and this wouldn’t have helped his attitude, I didn’t like the way he spoke to me. There was a distinct level of disrespect laced in his tone made worse by the fact he seemed to have no idea as to what I was talking about in the first place.

I sighed heavily, annoyed at his insolence, and reached into my back pocket where I’d stuffed my stethoscope.

‘You brought all of this upon yourself. You are aware of that, aren’t you?’ I continued before he had a chance to butt in, ‘You were given a second chance and still you weren’t taking it seriously… I followed you… I saw you drinking with your work colleagues - not just once but multiple times in a week. And the smoking… You were told to give that up but still you smoke as though there isn’t a care in the world. Then of course there is your diet. That too is atrocious and hasn’t improved despite the explicit instructions for you to change your habits…’ I shook my head, sad at the whole situation. ‘The thing is - you were told what to cut out, what to cut back on… Not for the benefit of those talking to you but for your own good and you just don’t care.’

‘A doctor. You were a doctor at the hospital.’

‘Yes. I was.’ I corrected myself. ‘I am.’

‘So what? Patients don’t do as they’re told so you abduct them and hold them prisoner until they change the way they live?’

I laughed.

‘Is that what you think this is?’

I shook my head.

‘Then what?’

‘You had your chance,’ I told him, ‘but you have blown it. You’ve proven to people that you aren’t going to change. You’re just a wasteful piece of shit. You were given a second chance of life and you threw it away. It’s tragic…’

‘I don’t know why you give a shit about my fucking health…’

I couldn’t help but laugh at his aggression. If anyone should have been getting angry, it was me.

I pulled his blanket down to his waist exposing his chest. The scar running down the centre of it had healed nicely. I put on the stethoscope and listened to his beating heart. As I did so, I wiped a tear from my cheek. Satisfied that, despite his refusal to eat, his heart sounded good I removed the stethoscope and hung it around my neck.

‘Let me be very clear,’ I told him. ‘I do not give a shit about your life now. Had you done as you were instructed, and looked after yourself… I would have actually wished you a great life with your little family. But given the fact you couldn’t even change to spend longer with them… You make me sick. A wasteful prick of a man.’ I paused a moment and took a deep breath. I continued, ‘I do not give a shit about your life but I do give a shit about your heart. My daughter’s heart.’

I stood there a moment and let that sink in for a second or two. He looked shell-shocked but then - why wouldn’t he? He probably never expected to be standing so close to the man whose little girl had given him this chance of living that he seemed so keen to squander.

‘I didn’t know,’ he said meekly.

‘Why would you? You don’t care about how you got your heart or who it came from. You just care that you got it.’ I added, ‘You know how lucky you are to even have it? How lucky you are that it even worked? The number of adults getting organ transplants from younger people is less than you could imagine and yet you were one of the lucky ones. How many people do you think died whilst waiting for a heart? How many on the list died before getting the heart that you now have inside you? But you don’t care. Not all the time you can carry on drinking, eating shit and smoking your precious little cigarettes…’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘You’re only sorry because of where you find yourself today. You asked what I wanted from you… I want to take back what you don’t deserve. I want to give it to someone who does deserve it…’

‘What?’

I smiled at him.

‘I’m going to take back my daughter’s heart.’

2.

Just as I had warned her, I leaned down to the television’s plug socket and killed the power. The television, on the other side of the wall, instantly switched off leaving my other guest with nothing to do but think about her actions which had led her here. The man had been an idiot and that was why he was here. God had seen fit to give him a second chance of life and he had squandered it. Now he got to lie downstairs, with the truth of the situation, and ponder his actions. She had been more than an idiot though. She had been reckless and her behaviour had ripped my life away from me.

I stood up and placed the palm of my hand against the wall separating us. I liked to think of her sitting in there reliving the moment over and over again, just as she deserved to. I liked to think of her seeing my daughter’s lifeless face just as I was forced to see it every night when I laid in my own bed, desperate for a sleep I’d rarely get.

I hope this woman - this bitch - suffers.

And to think - both of these guests could have had completely different lives had they both taken more care. Had this bitch paid more attention when reversing her car, my daughter would still be here. I would still be happy. I would still be working at the hospital doing all I could to ensure other families weren’t split up through senseless illness or accidents. And this man - had he chosen to make the most of his newfound life by respecting what was given to him… Well…

Too late now.

There is no turning back for either one of them.

I turned and faced the other wall. Across the room I had completely filled the other side with pictures of my girl. Each of them had been taped upon the wall like a makeshift wallpaper. It was less a shrine and more a way of trying to remember who she was and not how she had looked, lying there on the road. It didn’t work. No matter how many pictures I put up, whenever I turned away from them or closed my eyes - I would always see her deathly stare.

I walked over to the centre of the room where my favourite picture of her had been taped. It was of the two of us, taken by my ex-wife. We were at the beach and building a sandcastle together. The picture had been taken at the exact moment I’d decided to knock the castle down.

I smiled.

The look on my girl’s face is priceless. She was so mad at me and - even though I promised not to do it again - she refused to build another with me. Until, that is, she was bribed with ice-cream.

Remembering back, she wasn’t the only one who was mad at me. My ex-wife had been furious too, asking why I would do such a thing when we’d spent so much time building it in the first place. I told her it was funny and that it was easy enough to fix but - well, this was the stage of our relationship when she was looking for any reason to tear me apart.

She couldn’t be bribed with ice-cream.

‘I miss you.’

I kissed the tip of two of my fingers and pressed “my kiss” against the picture of my shocked daughter.

3.

Some days are easier than others. Some days I am able to function, doing whatever I see fit to do - such as preparing Victoria’s bedroom - but other days are much, much more difficult. After hearing my girl’s heart beating once more, after using the stethoscope on the waster’s chest, the day has been pretty much a write-off. No matter what I do, be it read a book or watch some television or even strolling in the nearby woodlands, I am unable to put my daughter from my mind. I don’t usually want to put her from my mind but - sometimes - it is nice to have a break and just pretend my world is okay. I’m not the broken shell of a man I once had been. I am still happy, I am still working. I still have something worth living for. Since hearing that beating heart, I am unable to fool myself with such lies and my hatred for the pair of them grows a little more.

I was standing in the woods. It was a spot where my daughter and I often used to walk together. She would be interested in looking at the various flora growing around the place - something her mother used to take an active interest in too - and I would spend the time trying to recount ghost stories in an effort to convince her that these woods were haunted. I don’t know, maybe a way of making her keep needing me? I need my daddy because the woods are haunted and he will keep me safe. I laughed at the thought of her saying that but it was a laughter that soon disappeared. She was too old to call me daddy. Already I have lost the sound of my little girl’s voice.

I hate where I am with my life and I long for my plan to be fulfilled and - hopefully - everything to continue as it was before the accident. There’s just a few more steps for me to take first but so far, so good.

I’m so close now.

Before I can carry on though, I need Victoria. Without her, this plan can’t continue and all I have is the bitch who killed my daughter and the man who wasted her heart; both worthless to me although, in the case of him, at least I can hear her heart whenever I choose to. But that wasn’t the point. That wasn’t why I took him and I know - if I left it at that - it would be “settling” for something. I haven’t come all this way to settle. I’ve done all of this to restart my life.

I need Victoria.

4.

It was almost half-past two.

Victoria would be out in approximately one hour. She would then walk half a mile to the train station with her usual group of friends. I do not know their names. They’re not important as they do not feature as part of my plan. If anything, they’re a hindrance to it. They’re there to potentially I.D me if everything goes wrong.

At the train station, the friends split up and leave Victoria alone. She gets a train from platform one and they get a train from platform three, at the other side of the station. Thanks to the unreliability of the trains, it isn’t always the case that their train collects them first but - that is the way it is supposed to be. Forty percent of the time though, their train is delayed for whatever reason. The reason - from what I have seen - is rarely given, not that it would matter to me whatever it was. The “reason” doesn’t stop it from being a pain in the arse.

All being good - and with God on my side - her friends’ train won’t be late this afternoon and they’ll be whisked away before I make my move.

My “move” itself is simple, if not clichéd: I will approach her on the platform and I’ll talk to her by name. I will tell her that I am a friend of her mothers. Her mother’s name being…

I hesitated.

Fuck.

What was her name?

I opened the notebook on my lap and ran my finger down a list of “facts” I had compiled over the weeks.

Where are you?

Ah ha…

Janet.

I’ll break it to Victoria that there has been an accident and I am to take her straight to the hospital where her mother - Janet - is in a critical condition. Her father Bryan is already there and waiting for me to show up with his daughter. He would have come out himself but - he can’t leave Janet’s side…

Victoria will hopefully be scared and confused enough to come without much questioning on her part. If she does question me though, I have imagined - and noted - enough scenarios to make things easier on myself if I need to go off-script. Hopefully they will not be needed though. A lie is more believable if you can keep it simple.

I closed the notepad and slid it back into the inside pocket of the jacket I had thrown on. I checked my reflection in the mirror hanging by the front door. I look strange to myself thanks to the clean shave I’d had and the hair dye I’d used but I’d look “average” to anyone else who might be near. The whole point of my look was not to stand out but rather blend instead.

I am Mr. Average.

BOOK TWO

PROLOGUE

The roads surrounding the school were peaceful despite the build-up of traffic and cars parking along the kerbside. With spaces limited, some parents found themselves parking in streets nearby, as previously arranged with their children when they had first dropped them off in the morning. Other parents simply did full laps around the perimeter, until they saw their child coming out of the school-gates. Then there were the parents who were stuck at work, unable to get out to collect their children. Those were the boys and girls who left the school and walked down to the bus-stops, which would take them closer to home, or they walked to the train stations to be collected from the other side.

Victoria was one of the children who had a network card for the train. On the cold winter days it bothered her that her mum wouldn’t come and collect her but - in the summer, when the weather was warm (and she had managed to talk her mum into giving her money for an ice-cream from the nearby shop), she didn’t mind so much.

The station was a fifteen minute walk. She would usually have to stand around on the platform’s edge for another five to ten minutes. The train would then take another fifteen minutes to get to her home station. From there it was a five minute walk to where her mum worked and a further half an hour’s wait for her mum to finish work. Then it was a ten minute drive home by which time Victoria was truly grateful to get in and jump on the settee in front of the television.

It wasn’t until Janet was ready to leave work that she realised her daughter hadn’t yet shown up. She’d been so preoccupied with the filing she’d been given - along with the instruction that it had to be done that evening - that she’d not been paying any attention to the time. It hadn’t been the first time Victoria hadn’t arrived straight from school. Frustratingly, the rail network wasn’t exactly the most reliable mode of transport.

Janet grabbed her handbag from the back of the chair where she’d slung it before starting work for the day, and reached for her mobile phone. This was the only reason she had finally caved and let her daughter have a handset of her own; so she could let her know when the trains were being delayed. Janet illuminated the screen at the press of a button and frowned.

There were no messages.

She navigated to the contacts and searched for her daughter’s name before pressing the green “call” button. She waited for the call to connect. The line was dead; her daughter’s phone was off, or out of service area…

PART one

Tony Cassell

8.

Being in the silent room and hearing the sound of my own heart beating within my chest had been bad before but now it seemed worse. The man’s words a harsh reminder that the beating I could hear wasn’t actually meant for me but rather for a girl who’d died.

When I was told of the transplant I had felt grateful that such an opportunity had arisen. When I woke up from the operation, after I’d gotten over the groggy feeling brought on by the drugs, I felt a new zest for life which - unfortunately - didn’t last much past the recovery period…

At no point - from being told of the operation to the recovery period - did I ever give a second thought as to who the heart had belonged to before it was mine.

Mine?

Will it ever be mine?

I remembered how he’d listened to my chest when he’d come into the room. How he’d listened to my heart… At first I thought he was just checking my vitals but then I realised he wasn’t. He didn’t care for my vitals other than wanting his daughter’s heart to keep beating. That was what he wanted to hear… The sound of his girl’s heart pumping once more. A sick feeling washed over me as a terrible thought came to mind of something happening to my own child.

What would it be like to hear the sound of their heart beating inside the chest of a stranger? How weird - and horrible - that must have been for him.

Or was it?

Perhaps hearing it, closing his eyes and listening, he was able to picture his daughter lying there?

The sickness swirled worse in my stomach as the doctor’s words came back to haunt me: I’m going to take my daughter’s heart back.

‘Hello?’ I called out despite knowing he’d not hear me. ‘What did you mean?’

Silence.

‘What did you mean you were going to take your daughter’s heart back?’

Still nothing.

‘Hello?’

He had been joking, surely? He was trying to teach me a valuable lesson. Look after his daughter’s heart or he would come and take it from me. That was it. That was the lesson he was trying to teach. Well, he has taught it. He wants me to eat healthy? Done. Quit smoking? Already planning to. I’ll go to the gym. I’ll go for morning runs. I’ll stop drinking. Whatever he wants. I’ll do it.

‘Hello?’

The room was still and silent, with the exception of the girl’s heart racing within my chest.

‘Answer me!’ I demanded.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump…

9.

I didn’t know what to say to the woman when she entered the room and came down the stairs to check on me for the second time that day. Any words I thought would be suitable were soon drowned out by the sound of the beating heart; that ever constant reminder that I own a piece of her daughter forevermore. What are you supposed to say to someone when you have a piece of their child inside you?

Thank you for signing your daughter up to be a donor.

I’m sorry if you think I am doing unnecessary damage to your daughter’s heart.

Your husband listened to my chest. Did you want to do the same? Did you want to hear your daughter’s heart beating once again?

Although I can’t get the girl from my mind, there is a part of me which questions as to whether this really is her heart. I mean, I understand that it was her heart but - it’s inside me now. So, is it still a part of her or is it “me” now? I could go back and forth with the question all day long and, each time, I could come up with a different answer and reasons as to why I drew the conclusions drawn. It was a pointless question to ask though. There was no way of answering it without there being people who’d disagree with you.

A little voice piped up and wished that I’d never received the heart in the first place. But then, if I hadn’t… Where would I be now? Certainly not down in this place but - would I even still be alive? I pushed the thought - and the voice - from my mind.

As the woman looked at the waste bucket, I took the opportunity to say, ‘I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter.’

She froze.

‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘I understand that he doesn’t like you talking to me and I don’t want to get you in trouble. I just… I just wanted you to know that I am sorry for what happened to her.’

If I was to get out of this place, I knew the mother was the best option. The way she looks at me, the way she is uncertain around me - I know she isn’t happy with what is happening here. I suspect - I hope - that given half the chance, she’d like to put it right and let me go. The only reason she hasn’t done so yet is because she is scared of him. It’s clear he has lost his mind.

‘What happened to her?’ I asked.

It was stupid of me to ask the question. More so given the fact I’d just pointed out how I knew she wasn’t allowed to talk to me. I was just trying to keep her from immediately leaving the room with the waste.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’m not used to people not talking back to me.’

She saw the bucket wasn’t in need of being emptied and - without a word - she held the bed-pan up with a raised eyebrow. I shook my head and she lowered it again. A non-verbalised conversation as to whether I needed to use it or not.

That’s the last thing on my mind right now.

I tried to continue the one-sided conversation in the hope that she’d eventually talk back to me.

‘I’m sorry if you think I haven’t been respecting your daughter’s heart too. It wasn’t my intention to mistreat it. I’m just living my life and - all the things I do… That’s how I am used to living it. I want to quit, if only for my own benefit. You know, grow old with my family and watch my kids grow and have children of their own. I want to quit and I was getting around to it. It’s just that - at the moment - I was going through a particularly tough time and… I’m sorry. I’m babbling and I am aware it is probably just sounding like a bunch of lame excuses. It’s not meant to sound like that.’ I cleared my throat as I struggled for what else to say. ‘I’m just scared.’ In the hope of getting her to open up about what was going to happen to me, I quickly added, ‘I’m just worried what your husband meant about taking his daughter’s heart back…’

The woman stood up and looked at me. I saw confusion in her eyes. She clearly had no idea what I was talking about.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ I asked.

She turned and walked from the room, hurrying up the wooden stairs.

The door slammed shut and - again - I was alone.

Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump!….

PART Two

Stephanie

8.

I walked from the hallway through to the television room and dropped to my knees, barely able to contain myself from screaming out of frustration, confusion and anger. It has only just dawned on me who the man is downstairs. All the talk of the daughter’s heart - he must be the recipient of an organ transplant…

It was bad enough thinking that I was here because of what I have done but to know he is here because of me too - it makes it that little bit worse. And to think, I didn’t think it could get any worse.

But why is he here? He was talking about not looking after the heart properly. Not respecting it. I guess he has been brought here to learn how better to look after himself? But then that doesn’t make sense. The food he is being given, the lack of exercise he is permitted - none of that is good for the heart either.

I jumped at the sound of the television coming to life across the hall and in the other room. My cue to go into the room and close the door until the television is off again.

I guess his business in here hasn’t finished after all and he wants to come back in as this isn’t the usual time for the television to be turned on. I scrambled up from where I’d dropped to my knees and - without questioning anything - walked through to the required room. As I stepped in, I closed the door behind me and then took my seat on the old chair. On the off-chance he could see me, from wherever he was, I looked towards the television.

A chatshow.

The host of the show, a jumped-up idiot who believes he is better than anyone else, is berating a rough looking girl who - according to writing at the bottom of the screen - is accused of sleeping with her sister’s husband. You can see audience members looking down their noses at the host’s guest. Just as the host does, they believe they are better than the guests too.

I couldn’t help but wonder what they’d think if they were looking into the situation we are in now. Would they look down their noses at us? Would they feel sorry for us and hate him for keeping us prisoner? Or - maybe - he is regarded as the “hero”, unable to let go of his daughter. The man on the bed is collateral damage. Then - of course - there is me, the true villain of the living arrangement…

Had I not been born, none of us would be here. I could hear them boo-ing me. I could hear them laughing at my discomfort. And - then - I realised that it wasn’t me they were mocking. It was the girl on the actual show now who was riling the audience up, mouthing off and flipping them the middle finger.

The host made a quip about her being a charmer and showed his surprise that she found anyone stupid enough to want to sleep with her.

‘And speaking of stupid,’ he continued, paving the way for the sister’s husband to join the stage.

I hated this show before finding myself in this house and, even with nothing else to do, I still hate it now. I wish I had a remote with which I could change the channel but the station is locked to this one. I presume the set can receive the others but - clearly he doesn’t want me watching them. No doubt he is stopping me from watching any potential news programs for there are none on this particular station. He probably doesn’t want me seeing stories of myself, missing. Or stories relating to the man who lies downstairs.

I turned away from the television, unable to stomach more of the chat show host smug face and my mind switched to thinking about him and what he is doing on this side of the house. Twice in one day. Before today, he hasn’t been over for what feels like weeks. Although, in truth, it could have only been days in reality.

Time stands still here.

What is he doing out there?

9.

The not knowing is the worst.

When I first arrived here, I thought he just wanted to punish me. I thought he wanted to make me suffer because I had accidentally made him suffer…

And it had been an accident.

I didn’t know if he wanted to kill me. To this day I still don’t. As the days drag though - how many have passed? - I am still unsure as to whether he will just, one day, kill me. If that were to be the end of my story though, I just wish he would get it over and done with and - if I had a choice - with little pain. Given the pain I have caused him though, I am guessing he would want me to suffer for as long as possible. It is a thought which genuinely concerns me.

Then came the day when he gave me the chores. He told me of my cleaning duties and then informed me of the other guest; the man I’d have to “care” for.

At the time, I did not ask him who the man was. I knew, if I had, he wouldn’t have answered anyway. After all, my previous questions had all gone unanswered too so what would make that one to be any different.

Once the chores had been established, I stopped seeing him as much on this side of the house. Communication was done via the hatch in the “kitchen” area and that was that. He would only come over this side to punish me from time to time with beatings if he believed I had stepped out of line. Hard punches that would take the wind from me, all directed to the stomach so as not to “damage” my face, he said. He also stated that he didn’t want to scare the other guest with my bruised and battered appearance. He’d told me the other guest was already under enough stress. Now I know why he had said that. He didn’t want the heart racing more than entirely necessary because it was his daughter’s heart.

Standing by the door in the television room, desperate to know what was happening upon the other side, I imagined him slapping the other guest around. Threatening him maybe that, if he doesn’t eat something next time food is presented, he’ll regret it. I thought about it more: He wouldn’t do that. Surely? He wouldn’t beat the man who has his daughter’s heart? Not when it would cause the heart to beat faster than needed? But if he wasn’t showing who was in charge, what was he doing? Perhaps setting up a drip or something? Get the man the necessary fluids so - even if he doesn’t choose to eat - his body is still getting all that he needs?

That would make sense.

Anything to protect the heart…

But it still doesn’t make sense why he would be keeping the man here, in those conditions. The fact he seems to not care for him, keeping him like that, contradicts wanting what is best for the organ…

I just don’t understand any of this and - as mentioned - that is what makes all of this seem worse. Not that there is any side of it which seems good!

The television turned off behind me.

Whatever he was doing over here, clearly he has finished and gone back to his side of the house.

House?

Prison.

10.

I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nothing appears to have changed. I looked towards the closed door leading the way down to where the other guest was. I’d left it closed so - without knowing he had been round here - I would never have known.

I want to go down to see the other man. I want to see if he has had anything done to him; be that a “punishment” or had line put into his vein. I’ve already done my second visit of the day though so know I am not permitted to go back down there until morning. If I do, I am sure to face a punishment of my own. All I can do now is retire to “my” bedroom and try and put all of this from my mind until morning.

Easier said than done.

I walked through to the kitchen and grabbed myself a plastic cup of water before taking it up the stairs towards my room. At the top of the stairs, I stopped dead.

My eyes fixed on the second bedroom.

The plastic cup slipped from my hand and bounced on  the floor, spilling the contents all over. I stood there, unable to look away from the second bedroom, as the water soaked into the wooden floorboards.

‘Where am I?’ the little girl asked.

This girl - no more - then thirteen Her eyes were red-raw from crying. Her dark hair was all over the place as though she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Her voice was soft and shaky; full of fear. More than that though - my eyes started to well - she was the spitting image of his daughter.

‘Where am I?’ she asked again. ‘I want to go home now.’

Suddenly everything started to make sense. He didn’t care about the man downstairs, he only cared about the heart. And what the man had said to me, taking his daughter’s heart back…

‘I want to go home,’ the girl said again.

I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say to her.

The door slammed shut and I instinctively jumped back with fright. My own heart hadn’t a chance to calm before I heard the door lock slide across.

‘Please return to your room and await my arrival,’ his voice came over the hidden speaker system clear as day.

The speaker crackled and then went silent. I walked back to my bedroom. No sooner had I stepped in, the door swung shut and the electronic lock slid across. With nothing else to do, I sat on the corner of my bed and awaited his arrival. The whole time, my heart raced as my mind reminded me that - this was another person trapped in this nightmare because of me.

A tear spilled down my cheek.

PART Three

The Doctor

5.

I moved away from the intercom system and downed the last of my celebratory beer to a day well spent. To my side, my phone was vibrating for the fourth time today. Work trying to get hold of me again. If it is anything like their previous unanswered voice-mails, they’re trying to determine when I am coming back to work. I’m surprised they haven’t started disciplinary procedures against me to be fair. I had been due back over two weeks ago and never got in touch to let them know what was happening. For all they know I’m dead and yet - bless them - they keep phoning. Unless…

Maybe they’re trying to reach out because they have done a stock check and they realise some of the drugs are missing. Or maybe they have seen some of the equipment is missing from the theatre too?

I thought I had done a good job of sneaking it all from the hospital but - maybe - there could well be some CCTV footage somewhere floating around. A little video of me leaving with the stuff covered on a trolley…

Now they’re phoning me, trying to pretend to be my friend, so they can get me in the office to ask me where it is? I can almost hear them now saying, if the stuff finds its way back to the room from where it disappeared, no charges would be pressed.

I laughed.

Fuck them.

I owe them nothing.

Anyway, I am sure I got out without being seen. I’m positive. Although I can’t help but find it a little amusing that this could be the way I am caught. I have abducted three people now and - watching the news - the authorities are clueless. They have no idea that I took these people from their miserable lives but know every little detail of what I took from where I used to work.

But then… I’m sure there was a serial killer who once got caught because his tail-light was out. I forget his name though. Fuck. It would be embarrassing to go down and be remembered for my actions just because of a stupid almost-unrelated issue.

As the phone stopped ringing, I couldn’t help but glance over it and wonder if I should - at some point - call them back. See what they have to say and try and judge what they want from the tone in their voice. Maybe they are just calling me out of respect for the fact they know I am a good doctor and want me back? Maybe they’re worried about me because they knew I struggled with what had happened to my daughter?

I sighed.

Only way I will know for sure is if I do call them.

I’ll phone them back later. First, I have to go and talk to Stephanie. She needs to know her next set of chores so that she can make a start on them first thing in the morning.

6.

Stephanie looked at me in surprise when she saw me walk into her room. For a split second I was unsure as to why until I remembered this was the first time she’d seen me with dyed hair.

‘What do you think?’ I asked her.

She didn’t answer.

‘Does it suit me?’

I walked from the doorway over to the bed where she was sitting. As I neared, she flinched away as though expecting to feel the back of my hand. I looked at her, confused. To my knowledge she hadn’t done anything to make me want to hit her. Not recently anyway.

I sat next to her and twisted my body so that I was facing her.

‘I know you have seen the girl,’ I said as I cut to the chase. ‘You probably have some questions but - hopefully - what I am to say to you will clear those up for you.’

She didn’t say anything. I wanted to make sure she was even listening to me.

‘Okay?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Good.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Her name is Victoria and she is - as you are probably already aware - scared about where she is and what is going on.’ I paused a moment, still concerned Stephanie wasn’t really listening properly. ‘Agreed?’ I asked.

‘Agreed.’

‘What did I say?’

‘The girl’s name is Victoria and she is scared.’

‘That’s right.’ Satisfied she was listening - and I wasn’t wasting my breath - I continued, ‘I want you to look after her. Your first job in the day will be to have your food. Your second job of the day will be to ensure he eats. If he doesn’t eat, you can let me know and I will deal accordingly. You can then take Victoria her food. To make her feel comfortable you are permitted to talk to her but you are not permitted to talk about where you are, who I am or anything you think you may know.’

Silence.

‘Understand?’ I asked.

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’

She opened her mouth as though to say something but promptly closed it again, obviously thinking better of it.

‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘If you have something on your mind, now is the time to say it.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

I looked at her, fairly surprised. Of all the things she was to say - I wasn’t expecting that. By now I had figured that all of this - what I wanted to happen - was fairly obvious.

‘Because I want my life back.’

‘I am truly sorry for what I did but - this isn’t going to fix anything… Please… I get that you want to hurt me but, they haven’t done anything… They’re innocent and…’

‘Innocent?’ I laughed. ‘I don’t know how he managed to get to the top of any fucking waiting list but - somehow - that is what he did. He was given my daughter’s heart… This sack of shit who smokes like a chimney, eats shit food, drinks… He doesn’t care that he has been given a second chance of life. He took my daughter’s heart willingly but is still living the same unhealthy life as he was before. He is a waster. He is a piece of shit and he doesn’t deserve her heart. Yet, had he been respectful, I might not have gone down this route. I would have been happy that there was a family out there who was, at least, benefiting from it. But, no. Not him. He will still die “young” but - when he does - he will be taking my daughter’s heart - arteries clogged with shit - with him. I cannot allow that. I will not allow that…’

‘But the girl…’

‘The girl comes from a broken background. I came to know of her because I happened to see her once, walking from her school. She caught my eye because of how much she looked like my little girl. Do you remember my girl’s face? Can you see the resemblance… I followed her back to where her mother worked. I followed them home. Their shit home in a shit council estate. I listened to how her mother spoke to her and how she spoke back. I listened to what her father was like… I saw her unkept siblings… This girl is broken. Her family is broken. I am doing her a favour…’

‘How is kidnapping her doing her a favour?’

‘I’m giving her the heart of someone good. The heart she has is rotten. Then I will be raising her as my own. I’ll be the father she should have had. I’ll be a positive influence and - thanks to me - she will grow to be a positive member of society. Then there is you… You killed my little girl and that is why you’re here, helping me with all of this. Helping me to set things right. Then, when I am done and I have what I want… When I have my little girl again, I will have my life back. Maybe I will give you your life back too…’

I could tell from the look in her eyes that she doubted what I was saying. In fairness, I do not blame her. She will not survive this stay. She cannot survive. She will be a loose end in need of tidying up.

‘So you’re going to take that man’s heart and put it in the girl?’

‘No. That man’s heart is already in the waste. I am taking my daughter’s heart and giving it to that girl.’

‘In the process you’ll kill that man. I killed your daughter by accident. You’re killing that man by choice.’

‘No. That man killed himself through years of neglect. He shouldn’t have that heart. He should have his own heart until it gives up and he dies. That’s the way things go. He never deserved this second chance…’

She sat there in silence.

‘You know your chores now?’ I asked as I stood up, readying myself to leave.

She didn’t answer.

‘Yes? No?’ I pushed her.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Now get some rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.’

I walked from the room and closed the door behind me. I locked it shut, putting her in her place for the night.

PART Four

Victoria

1.

I want my mum.

I don’t know who this man is.

He said she was in the hospital and then he brought me here and told me not to scream or else I would be sorry.

I wanted to scream but was scared.

I still want to scream.

I am hoping everything is a joke and that he will come and let me go soon. I have seen shows like this on the television, with people doing pranks on their friends and I hope this is like that.

But why would anyone do this to me?

I don’t know if my mum is okay or whether she is in the hospital either and I am worried for her. If she is there, I hope dad is with her. And I hope my sisters are too.

I miss them already.

I got off the bed he threw me on and walked over to the closed door, tip-toeing on the carpeted floor hoping not to make the floor squeak underneath. If it is like my bedroom at home, there will be some loose boards under the carpet that make a groaning noise when you tread of them. And if the man is like my dad, he will hear them and shout for me to get back into bed.

I got to the door without being shouted at and tried to steady my hand as I slowly turned the door handle. I hoped that the door would open and that it would be quiet. My bedroom door at home creaks no matter how carefully you pull it open.

I felt like bursting into tears when I turned the handle and it didn’t budge. I was stuck in here and the window was bricked up so that I couldn’t get out of there either.

I want my mum.

*

Janet paced the living room of her council house as the police officers sat on the sofa, little black note books open on their laps as they scribbled notes. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet so it was hard for them to admit Victoria as “missing” despite the fact she hadn’t come home when she should have done so.

The uniformed officers were asking all of the necessary questions with which to build a better picture of the girl. They’d started with a description and had been given a recent photo from Janet. They then turned the line of enquiries to her friends; the possibility she had gone to see one of them after school. Janet admitted that she did do that from time to time but, when she did so, she always got in touch to say what she was doing, who she was with and what time she would likely be home. She would also say how she was getting home. Nine times out of ten it would be a lift from her friend’s mother or father.

The unpleasant questions weren’t far behind the fact-finders: Did she have any enemies? Had she passed comment about seeing anything strange as she’d walk home from school? No she didn’t have enemies. No she hadn’t mentioned seeing anything strange. Yes the relationship they had as a family unit was good… This particular question - the one hinting as to whether Victoria would have reason to run away - was one which upset Janet the most. She knew they weren’t the best parents, she knew their children didn’t get all the latest gadgets or have the easiest lives but both she and Mark, her husband, loved all of their children dearly. She told the officers that they argued from time to time - what parent doesn’t argue with their child at some point - but it certainly wasn’t enough to make the girl want to run away. The worst she would do was to storm off to her bedroom and slam the door. That was it.

Not coming home, not messaging her mum to say where she was going - if she wasn’t coming straight home… All of this was completely out of character for her.

‘Please find my girl.’

The officers promised to do their best. All the fretful parents could do was hope and pray that it was enough. They’d seen on the news too many incidents of missing teenage girls showing up dead.

PART Five

Tony Cassell

10.

I haven’t been able to sleep again despite feeling tired. No matter how much I try and ignore it, I can’t help but think of the heart beating inside as not belonging to me but, rather, this man’s daughter instead. It is a weird feeling and one that wasn’t considered after the operation. Now it is in my head though - I cannot seem to escape it.

I also can’t forget the words he said to me when he came to see me. Taking his daughter’s heart back. What does that mean? I know he works - or worked - at the hospital, and I know he is a surgeon so - could he? Could he actually take his daughter’s heart back? But then if he was going to do that - why would he keep me alive for so long? Surely he would have just cut me open already and taken it back? Especially when you consider he is worried about the way I live my life and my general health.

Why couldn’t he have just told me what was going through his mind, or what he was planning? Unless - I asked him why he cared about my health… I don’t remember though - did I say sorry for not looking after myself better since the operation? Did I at least do that? Everything is becoming a blur and I can’t remember what I did and didn’t say. Did I tell him I can change?

I don’t think I did.

No.

I didn’t.

Did I?

If I tell him that though… That I can change - maybe he will let me go? Maybe he’ll keep watching me for a while to ensure I live by the life he expects from someone who is grateful for their second chance? Maybe.

But how would that work?

Surely he would know that - if he let me go - I’d go straight to the police. I would report him for what he had done to me. Not only would he never work again, neither would he have his freedom. They would lock him up so damned fast. They would throw away the key. Then, with any luck, someone would make him their bitch whilst he rotted.

Fuck him.

Fuck his daughter.

I hope he ends up inside. I hope, whilst there, he can’t get her from his mind. That dead girl. Fuck the both of them.

My heart started to race as my anger started to take a hold of me. I would give anything to be out of these cuffs. Anything to be at home with my wife and my children. But first… I would give anything to… My mind started picturing all that I would do to him. My mind allowed me the luxury of being able to picture him on the floor in a pool of his own fresh blood.

Fuck him.

As my adrenaline started to calm, the discomfort returned to my body and the pain to my wrists and ankles.

I screamed, ’Get me the fuck out of here!’

11.

His wife walked down the stairs with a plate of food in one of her hands.

When I spoke, my voice was filled with both sarcasm and venom.

‘Let me guess,’ I said, ‘fish and bread.’

Without a word, as per fucking usual, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. Also - no surprises - she did all she could to avoid eye-contact with me. For a split second I could have sworn she looked as though she wanted to say something though but - it passed. If there was to be any conversation, it would be down to me. Despite wanting to tell her to fuck off and spit at her, a hope that she’d pass the message to her husband, I still perceived her to be my best chance of getting out of here.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

She paused cutting up the fish with the edge of the plastic fork, just for a moment.

‘For your daughter, I am sorry for whatever happened to her.’

She swallowed hard. I’m not sure if she was swallowing back tears or whether they were words being stopped from coming out; fearful that she would once again be shouted at for talking to me. I do wonder though, if she were able to talk to me, what would she say? Would she apologise for having me here? Would she agree with his words about my health and hate me as much as he seemed to? Would she rant and rave at me, wasting her daughter’s generous gift… A gift she had to die for? On the rare occasions our eyes meet, it is hard to tell what she is thinking.

‘You know it wasn’t my fault though, right?’ I continued talking between the mouthfuls of food I was being fed.

Needless to say the woman didn’t respond verbally. Instead she tried to speed up the process in which she fed me, as though keeping me eating would shut me up from saying what I believed needed to be said.

I chewed faster.

‘I didn’t take her life and yet now I am being punished. I’m not the person who should be punished. For all I know - no one is at fault and she just got ill… I don’t know what happened. But,’ I continued after another mouthful of food, ‘… it wasn’t me.’

The woman set the fork down despite the plate not being clear of food. For the second time she looked as though she were going to say something.

‘What do you want to say?’ I asked. ‘I know you want to say something to me; it’s written all over your face.’

Before she uttered a word, she stood up and walked from the room, leaving via the stairs as she always did.

‘Wait…’ I called out, desperate to get her to see that I don’t deserve this but - the door slammed shut. Regardless, I called out, ‘I don’t fucking deserve this! You know that! Your husband is fucking crazy! You both are!’ She was gone though. ‘FUCK YOU BOTH! YOUR DAUGHTER BURNS, HEARTLESS, IN HELL, YOU CUNT!’

PART Six

Stephanie

11.

I hate seeing him now he knows about his heart, or rather the girl’s heart. Beforehand, he was just confused and wouldn’t really try and talk to me but - now - he thinks I am married to this monster…

His comments about being punished for the actions of someone else hurt too. He hates me because he thinks I am the daughter’s mother and I am part of the reason he is here. If he knew the truth though, he would hate me more. I am the reason for all of this.

I want to tell him who I am.

I want to tell him that I am the reason he is here and I want to hear him tell me that it is okay. I want him to see that this was an accident; well, what happened to the daughter was. That was the accident. None of what is happening now is by my design and I would hope that he can see that.

I need to hear him say that he doesn’t blame me for this. I just think - if I did - it would make this a little bit easier for me. But then…

Do I deserve it to be easier?

I walked through to the kitchen and set his unfinished plate to the side. I feel bad for not letting him clear his plate but I just had to get the hell out of there.

I should go back and let him finish.

I can’t go back.

I take the second plate - the one for the girl - and walk back down the hallway towards the stairs so I can take her her breakfast. I feel bad for her. Not just for where she is. But by feeding him first, her fish is near enough stone-cold.

Tomorrow I should feed him second and her first so she can have a warmer serving. I can alternate it each day to keep things fair.

It’s the least that I could do.

I walked up the stairs trying to put the man’s words from mind. I know the girl is going to be upset. More than upset. I know I need to comfort her. I can’t very well do that all the time I am blaming myself for all of this or thinking about what just happened downstairs. I need as clear a mind as possible. A hard enough task as it was.

At her door I used my spare hand to turn the handle and push the door open. The girl was sitting on the bed.

Victoria.

I remembered her name was Victoria.

Her legs were bent at the knees and she sat there with her arms wrapped around them, keeping herself huddled up tight.

‘Hey there Victoria,’ I said, unsure of what else there was to say. She saw me and instantly backed up against the wall. I could see that she was visibly shaking and it broke my heart. ‘It’s okay,’ I told her, ‘there’s nothing to be scared of with me.’ I quickly added, ‘I brought you some breakfast. Thought you might be hungry.’

Cautiously I crossed the room and sat on the corner of the bed. I was at the furthest point away from her with my back slightly to her so she knew I wasn’t in a position to suddenly pounce.

Slowly, I set the plate of food down between the two of us. At first she didn’t even give it a look but - that didn’t last long.

I tried to keep things as normal as possible. I asked her, ‘What name do you go by? Victoria or Vicky?’

I wondered if he was in the other room listening to this - just as he’d listened in the first time I went and met the other “guest”.

I wondered if he was getting some weird kick out of me trying to coerce this petrified girl into a conversation. He wanted me to calm her down and make her feel safe but - how do you do that with someone who has been kidnapped? Especially when you’re presenting them with stale bread and cold fish to eat.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘you can tell me…’

‘Vicky,’ she said.

‘Hello Vicky. I’m Stephanie.’

‘My mum calls me Victoria.’

‘I like Victoria. It’s a pretty name. It’s much prettier than Stephanie,’ I said. Despite the fact that I myself felt like a nervous wreck, I was trying my best to keep the line of conversation friendly and light.

Even though I was still to blame for everything that was happening, I hated him for making me do this. This girl - no matter what he said - was innocent. She shouldn’t have been here. Fine, punish me, I understand that. I can even see a fucked up reasoning behind him wanting to teach the other guest a lesson but - Victoria was just a teenager. She had her whole life ahead of her and whilst he didn’t plan on killing her - he didn’t plan on letting her go either. She was to be, forevermore, a prisoner to him.

‘I brought you something to eat,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘You must be hungry.’

She glanced to the food for a second time and then to me with a sheepish look in her eyes. A sheepish look and more than a hint of fear.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

She looked as though the words were on the tip of her tongue but she was too nervous to say what was on her mind.

I reassured her again, ‘It’s okay…’

‘I’m allergic to fish.’

I looked back down to the plate wondering if she could eat the bread at least and then noticed that it was touching the fish. If her allergy is as bad as some people can have it, even this will be potentially dangerous to her.

‘I can try and rustle you up something else to eat,’ I said - a complete lie. I’m not sure what he will do about this but I do know he can’t force her to eat something she is allergic to. Even if he doesn’t believe her and thinks she is saying it to just be awkward. He couldn’t risk it.

A little ray of hope shone into my mind; if she needs something else to eat, does this mean that we too will get something else for breakfast? Bread, fish and water has been my diet for so long, a change would be welcome and I am sure the other guest would feel the same.

My mind was quick to return back to what he had said of his plans. For all I know, tomorrow - the other guest will be dead and his heart will be inside of this girl. If things go badly, she could be dead too.

How can he think he can perform a heart transplant outside of an operating theatre with the necessary staff to help, and the proper medical equipment? It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t make sense.

‘What’s your favourite food?’

The moment I asked the question I regretted it. Just because she might have told me, it didn’t mean she would get it. For all I knew, I could be getting her hopes up needlessly and that wouldn’t be fair. But then maybe he will treat her better than he treats us? His great plan, to give this girl his daughter’s heart and treat her as his own child… Maybe he will spoil her and give her whatever her heart’s desire…

It didn’t matter. She answered with a shrug.

I went to ask another question in order to try and push for an answer when - with no warning - the door slammed shut from across the room and the lock clicked shut. We both jumped.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

I didn’t know how to respond. This would only ever usually happen if I had done something which

deserved being reprimanded for.

‘It’s okay,’ I lied. I couldn’t stop myself and added, ‘Everything will be okay.’

PART Seven

The Doctor

7.

I stormed down the stairs with the scalpel gripped firmly in my hand and the rage burning within. As I crossed the room towards where my patient lay, he tried his best to shit up and brace himself for whatever it is he thought I was going to do. The restraints did their job and kept him firmly in his place though.

At his bed, hate and anger in my eyes, I leaned down to where he lay and pressed the edge of the scalpel’s blade against his Adams Apple, enough to draw blood as he stopped breathing in case the movement caused the cut to go deeper.

In this position we paused a moment.

I wanted to push the blade in.

I wanted his blood to spew over my clothes.

I wanted to watch the life leak from a gaping gash in his throat.

I wanted to watch the life fade from his eyes as he choked on blood.

I wanted it as much as I wanted my daughter back, not the girl I was going to turn into my daughter but my real daughter…

‘Do it,’ he said through gritted teeth.

I quickly came to my senses. I hadn’t gone to all this trouble to ruin it all now just because he had managed to get a rise from me. I pulled my hand - and the scalpel - away from his neck as the blood continued to trickle from the small cut I’d made.

‘If I did do it,’ I warned him. ‘I wouldn’t make it that easy for you.’ I paused a moment to let them sink in for him. Then, in case his imagination was struggling to think of the possibilities, I added, ‘What if I do the operation whilst you’re awake?’

That got his attention.

‘What if I open your chest up and pull that precious heart out whilst you’re fully awake and aware of what is happening… Let you see it beating before I remove it from your chest?’

When Stephanie had been with him, I had been trying to wash the dye out of my hair so I could go back to my natural colour. Sadly it wasn’t as “easy” as the packaging had me believe and so I had to cover it with a darker colour closer to my norm. When I came out of the shower room, I listened back to their conversation and had the misfortune to hear what he had to say about my daughter. His words, cruel and ill-timed, put me in a rage. I sealed the two girls together and then headed straight down here with the scalpel in hand. I confess, when I was next door, my immediate thought was to slash his throat open right there and then. I knew I could always save the heart if I acted quickly. It was only when I’d actually gotten to the bottom of these stairs, in this room, that I had calmed enough not to just stick my sharp blade through him like a hot knife through butter.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he told me.

‘If you speak of my daughter like that again, I will.’

‘No. You don’t have to do any of this.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you let me go now, I’ll go home to my family. I’ll change the way I live my life. I’ll respect the second chance I was given and - I swear - I won’t tell the authorities about any of this. It could be our secret.’

I couldn’t help but laugh.

He wouldn’t tell the authorities?

‘We both know,’ I told him, ‘that if I let you go - the first place you would head to is the police station. It doesn’t matter what you say, I know you would. Even if you actually believe what you’re saying now - about not going… You would. Why? Because you’d realise that you would live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for me. I snatched you from your life easily and - if need be - I could do it again…’

‘I swear… I just want to live. I want my family…’

‘And even if I did believe you… We have come too far for any of that to happen. Everything is set in motion now and the final piece of this jigsaw - the one which gives me a full picture of a new life… It’s all in place now.’

‘Please, you don’t have to do this…’

‘Hush.’ I paused a minute to ensure he did as he was told. Then I told him, ‘There is no turning back. You had your chance and you blew it. Now it’s my turn to live and I choose to do it with my daughter…’

‘She’s dead,’ he said.

I raised the scalpel up and tilted the blade so that it caught the overhead light. Rightly so, he didn’t add anything else to the previous sentence.

‘We’re getting close to the end,’ I warned him. ‘You need to make peace with God.’

I walked away from the bed and towards the stairs.

‘Wait,’ he called out.

I paused but didn’t turn.

‘If you plan on killing me like I presume you mean to, please… I beg you… At least let me call my family. Let me talk to my wife. You can be there. I promise I won’t tell them what is going on. Let me just hear their voices again and make it so they stop looking for me… Let me give them what they need to be able to move on and be happy… Please I fucking beg you.’

I thought about it for a moment.

‘We’ll see,’ I told him.

I started up the stairs.

‘You owe me that much! You fucking owe me that much! I don’t deserve this! I did nothing to your daughter! I did nothing!’

I stepped through the door at the top of the stairs and then closed the door behind me. The sound-proofing immediately silenced his words.

8.

I had gone back round to my side of the house and settled in front of the small television screen I’d installed into my study space. On screen, I am watching the video footage captured of the two girls. The images are captured from a small camera I’d installed in the ceiling, close to where the light bulb hung. The camera is small enough to not be obvious and yet powerful enough to provide a clear picture. It also has a fish lens meaning most of the room is captured by the recording. There is audio but it isn’t the best. But then, it doesn’t need to be. I can hear enough of the conversation to know that Stephanie is doing as was asked and not telling Victoria anything about her situation.

The picture provided is clear enough that I can see something in the way Stephanie looks which is making me feel uncomfortable. Could it be that she is starting to have second thoughts about helping me out, or at least sticking to the rules of my instructions?

I hope not.

She needs to be careful. We are getting close to the time where I will no longer be requiring her help. Just as I can make it slow and painful for Mr. Cassell - I can do the same for her too.

Thoughts of Mr. Cassell reignited the words I’d heard him scream to Stephanie about my daughter burning in hell, not that I wanted them back in my mind…

I could see her there, standing on a clearing of red rock with flames all around her, licking away her flesh. She was wearing the same clothes she had been wearing when she was struck by the car. The clothes, somehow, unburned by the fires.

I could see her standing there, screaming out for me to come and rescue her.

Black tears staining her cheeks.

I could see her standing there - a dark hole in her open chest where her heart should have been.

As if to torment myself further, my heart played back the sound of my daughter’s heartbeat that I’d heard when pressing the stethoscope to Mr. Cassell’s chest. The suddenness in which the sound came back to me took me by surprise and I couldn’t help but to weep.

I hit myself in the face.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

Another tear.

I hit myself again.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand after I managed to stop myself from crying further. Fucking stupid. I need to keep my shit together.

Having been momentarily distracted, I turned back to the television screen and to the two girls. I noticed Victoria hadn’t eaten her breakfast.

I sighed wearily.

It doesn’t please me that she doesn’t appear to be grateful for what she was given. I hope this is something she can change or else we will be forever locking heads with one another and that is something which had never happened with my daughter.

I hope I’m not going to have troubles with her too.

I am sure Stephanie will report back when she hands the clean dishes over at the other end of the day.

At least, she had better report back…

Frustrated with what I was seeing on screen, I leaned over and flicked the off switch on the set.

I was going to let them out of the room but - given how she hasn’t touched her breakfast - they can stay in there whilst I pop to the shops for more supplies.

9.

I pushed the shopping trolley out in front of me. As I did so, whilst attempting a straight line I hasten to add, the stupid thing kept trying to turn me to the left. It was the same every time I went to the stores; I always got the faulty trolley. I just wished the managers would gather them all up and get rid of them, or even fix them. But then - where’s the fun in that? In today’s society of “funny captured moments”, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a hidden camera in the trolley’s handle-bars to capture the rage of the frustrated pushers.

I turned into the frozen aisle where the bags of fish were kept and almost ran into a small child who’d been let off the lease.

‘I’m so sorry,’ his mother said, apologising immediately.

I smiled.

‘Not a problem,’ I said.

I watched as she yanked the boy back over to where her trolley was. As she did so, she berated him, telling him not to wander off. I was reminded of when my ex-wife would say similar to my little girl, all those years ago, and I couldn’t help but to smile. A man approached the trolley with an armful of frozen goods which he duly dumped into the cart. He gave the little boy a stern look and shook his head from side to side as the boy just stood there with a frown upon his face. Ah, got to love the family shopping trips.

As I watched the family add a few more items into their trolley, and head off down the aisle, I couldn’t help but think about what Tony had said back at the house. His request to call his family and give them a chance to move on without him. Now I did not appreciate what he said about my daughter and neither did I like how he treated her heart but, his family haven’t done anything to me. They don’t deserve a lifetime of happiness just as I didn’t when my girl was in the accident. If there is a way I can ease this process for them then I should surely take it. It seems only fair.

Although - if I agree to this, and there is nothing causing me to rush into it - it will be done on my terms and I will make it crystal clear to him that I am doing it for them and not for him.

He deserves nothing from me.

I loaded the bags of frozen fish into my trolley and headed towards the nearest cashier.

The cashier was a pretty girl. With her dark hair and her green eyes, it was impossible not to be mesmerised by her as she scanned my items from the conveyor belt to the bagging area.

‘Someone likes fish,’ she said as she scanned the second of five bags.

I smiled.

‘I have cats. Delicate stomachs so I can only give them fish zapped in the microwave…’

‘You sure that’s the truth?’

I looked at her with a frown.

‘They probably pretend to get upset bellies to ensure they keep getting the good food,’ she said. She must have sensed my confusion. For a split second I thought she was onto me - not that I know how she could have been - and somehow knew who was back at my house, eating the fish.

‘Sneaky,’ I politely replied as I loaded the fish into one of the chargeable carriers bags she’d presented me with.

‘I like dogs myself,’ she said - seemingly bored and trying to pass the time by conversing with customers. I didn’t respond to her.

I like peace and quiet.

When she scanned the last of the items, she totalled the bill up for me and I paid her - as I always do - with cash. I took both the change and the receipt from her and left the area.

As I walked from the supermarket, across the car park, to my car - I thought back to Tony and his family. The more I think about it, the more I realise my conscience won’t let me ignore his family’s welfare. This evening, we’ll talk about him calling home and depending on how he answers my questions, I may just let him make that call. Then, tomorrow, it’s time to start preparations for the operation.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

PART Eight

Tony Cassell

12.

I couldn’t take my eyes from the phone in his hand. Had I not been cuffed, I would have already snatched it from him and frantically dialled the number on which to reach my wife. A hope that I could hear her voice - and she could hear mine - before he’d get the handset off me again.

‘Tomorrow I am going to take my daughter’s heart back,’ he said to me. He spoke in a very matter-of-fact tone and I noticed he didn’t blink. ‘I told you I am taking it back and nothing will change that,’ he added.

I didn’t say anything.

For one, I didn’t know what to say.

‘As I explained to you before, I can make things very uncomfortable for you should I choose to. I can let you see my daughter’s beating heart as I open you up. Or… You can go to sleep and just not wake up…’

Thoughts of my family…

My eyes welled up…

‘If I were in your shoes, I know which I would prefer. Do you understand?’

‘You’re a doctor. You know how risky this procedure is… At the moment, your daughter’s heart beats inside me but - what if something happens? What if something goes wrong? You’ll lose the beat forever.’

‘It is a risk, yes.’

‘Then you don’t have to do this.’

‘I am going to take your heart and put it into a girl who looks just the same as my own daughter… When she wakes up - with my daughter’s heart beating within her chest - she will be my daughter…’

‘It’s an organ. The heart is a fucking organ.’

‘She will love me and I will love her. Although I understand there will be an adjustment period.’

‘The heart is an organ, it doesn’t make your daughter who she is. Was… That was her brain. Her memories…’

‘The heart carries the soul and - at the moment - you’re darkening it with your wastefulness.’

‘This is ridiculous…’

He held his hand up to silence me. I went quiet.

‘You can do this the easy way, or the hard as explained but - no matter what you say to me now - it is happening.’

I kept my mouth shut.

‘You said you wanted to make a phone-call…’

‘Please…’

‘I have decided to permit you this but not because you asked. Instead - I feel for your family that you leave behind…’

A tear rolled down my cheek.

‘… And I believe they deserve some kind of closure from you so that they can move on - as you stated.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I will hold the phone to your head for a few minutes only and you can say what is on your mind. You can say whatever it is that needs to be said, so that they can move on with their lives. If you try and speak of me. If you try and speak of where you are or what is happening - I will hang up the call and you will remain awake for tomorrow’s operation.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Do you understand?’

I nodded.

‘Good. And do you need a moment to think about what you’re going to say?’

I shook my head. I was just desperate to hear my wife’s voice. I had waited long enough and didn’t want to delay further on the off-chance he suddenly changed his mind.

Another tear spilt from my eye.

‘If you tell me the number, I shall dial it.’

I recited my wife’s number to him and watched nervously as he dialled the digits. No sooner had he done so did he press the phone against the side of my head. Ear-piece to ear and mouth-piece to mouth.

My heart started to race as the line connected and started to ring. I wondered whether - if she didn’t answer - he would come back later and let me try…

‘Hello?’

She answered. Her tone sounded frantic.

Immediately more tears started to spill from my eyes.

‘Baby, it’s me…’ My voice cracked.

‘Tony? Is that you?’

‘It’s me…’

‘Where are you? We’ve been so worried about you! People are looking for you! Everyone keeps asking after you and…’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I don’t have much time.’

‘Why? What is it? Where are you? What’s wrong?’

‘I’m sorry but I can’t do this anymore.’

‘What? Do what? Honey?’

‘I’m not coming home. You have to stop looking for me.’

‘What do you mean you’re not coming home? Baby, you’re scaring me…’

‘But I want you to know that I love you very much…’

‘If you love me - why aren’t you coming home?’

‘… I love the children…’

‘Are you in trouble? What is it? We can sort it?’

‘… And I want you to have a happy life…’

‘Stop it! You’re scaring me!’

‘I’m so, so sorry. I wish things could have been different…’

‘Don’t say that! Come home so we can talk!’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too…’

The words were music to my ears and yet also a dagger to my heart.

‘I’m sorry baby…’

Unable to hold my tears in any longer, I signalled for him to take the phone away. He did so and hung up in the process.

‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Fuck you.’

‘I’m sure you meant to say thank you.’

He dropped the phone to the floor and raised his foot. As he brought his booted foot down on the handset, the crack of the components drowned out my second attempt to say fuck you. I looked down at the mangled mess and then up to him.

‘Don’t want them calling back now, do we?’

He leaned down and scooped the shattered mess up before walking towards the stairs. He paused at the foot of them and turned back to me.

‘If I ordered a take-away tonight, what would you like?’

I frowned.

He smiled.

‘A last meal,’ he said.

I didn’t answer as the tears continued to roll.

He shrugged.

‘I guess I can choose for us then. I was just trying to be nice.’

He started up the stairs.

‘Fuck you!’ I yelled.

Until the door closed behind him, at the top of the stairs, I could hear his laugh.

I screamed again, ‘Fuck you!’

My wife sounded so scared for me. I thought it would be nice to hear her voice one final time. I thought it would do some good to try and get her to feel like she could move on without me. To stop her from wasting time looking for me and - just - be happy.

Now I wish I hadn’t called her.

Now I wish I was with her.

Cuddling her.

Kissing her.

Reassuring her that I loved her and that - actually - everything was going to be okay. It’s not though. Nothing is going to be okay. Nothing is going to be okay.

Nothing is going to be okay.

I screamed again even though there was no one near to hear me. I screamed again, for me.

Epilogue

The Doctor

With my good deed done for the day I continued to put away the shopping I’d purchased earlier. I miss the days of being able to order from the comfort of my own home just to have it delivered. I didn’t trust the system anymore, not with what I had done with my time recently. The last thing I needed, after all my hard work, was for them to deliver the shopping and see something “off”. A paranoia that I would end up with the police around the house, breaking in to arrest me for my crimes.

Crimes?

Is it a crime to want to be able to turn the clock back? That’s all I am doing. Putting my daughter’s heart back in a body more suited to it. Fixing my life. Trying to pick up the pieces for a happy ever after.

I laughed. Trying to justify it, I sounded like a mad man. I know the difference between right and wrong and in my heart - I know this is wrong and I know everyone else would feel the same too. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in what I am doing though and I am doing this.

With the frozen goods put away, I retired back to my study so that I could catch up on what the girls had been doing whilst I was away. I could also unlock the door to allow them to explore the rest of the house. And - of course - Stephanie has her chores to be done still. Just because we are getting to the end, it doesn’t mean she gets to skimp out on doing what is expected of her.

I sat down on my office chair with a quick glance to the television monitor showing Victoria’s temporary bedroom. Victoria was under the covers, Stephanie was sitting on the edge of the bed facing away from her. Good.

I leaned over to the top drawer and pulled out a couple of take-away menus. The establishments are fairly close and - before I let the girls out - I would order something to eat before venturing out to fetch the food. Again, I don’t want people snooping around the property so - like the shopping - it is best that I collect. The question is - though - what do I order? There is a menu for an Indian, a Chinese and the obligatory pizza chain although it’s fair to say the latter is probably the least favourable in my opinion. This particular chain seems to favour a dough that isn’t to my taste. That being said, we’ll probably end up with something from here. I’m unsure of Victoria’s tastes and whilst most adults can tolerate an Indian or a Chinese - teens tend to be more fussy.

My own daughter certainly was.

Whenever I asked her what she wanted, if we were eating out, it would always be pizza. I sighed having just answered my own question about what to eat. It’s not my first choice but it would probably be hers and she is the one I want to feel comfortable. And so what if Tony didn’t like pizza? I had offered him the choice of what to have and he had refused to answer. Now he can eat whatever and just be grateful. To prove a point, I’d probably order him his own pizza and have it with extra anchovies.

As I opened the menu to see the various options, something from the monitor caught my eye. I lowered the menu and looked closer to the screen: Stephanie was crying.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I muttered to myself.

Her crying wouldn’t fill Victoria with any sense of ease about her newfound living situation. I had told her to make the girl more comfortable and couldn’t see - no matter what angle I looked at it from - how this was going to achieve that?

I reached for the small, red button on the wall which released the magnetic door locks and gave it a press. On-screen the door opened. Stephanie jumped up and backed herself against the far wall, her eyes fixed to the door as though she was expecting me. Still, Victoria didn’t move from where she was covered on the bed.

A sinking feeling began to wash over me.

‘What have you fucking done?’

And then it dawned on me.

Stephanie

I knew he would be mad but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t stand by and watch what he was going to do… What he was going to put that poor girl through. It was obvious help wasn’t coming for us. I didn’t have a choice. He’ll be here any minute now. I know he will. I know he is on the way and I know he is angry.

‘I didn’t have a choice!’ I shouted loud enough that he would hopefully hear me. That he might stop from punishing me long enough to hear my reasons. ‘I didn’t have a choice! I didn’t have a choice…’

I could hear footsteps from through the open door. They’re on the wooden stairs and getting louder as he heads this way.

‘I didn’t have a choice!’

‘What have you fucking done?’

His words were cold, angry, harsh…

His footsteps closer.

My heart skipped a beat as he appeared in the doorway.

A look of pure hatred and anger on his face.

He wasn’t looking at me though.

He was looking at the bed.

He was looking at the body.

When I first smothered her with the pillow, I wasn’t sure I would get away with it. I wasn’t sure if he was watching but - even if he had been - I had to try. It was better to take her life now than have her endure an unnecessary operation. It was better she die now, as the girl she came into the world as. Better to die as Victoria as opposed to the girl he wanted to turn her into.

It was the quickest death that I could offer her and I hope - for her sake - that it was peaceful.

‘I couldn’t let you do it,’ I said.

His gaze turned to me.

‘What have you fucking done?’

‘She wasn’t yours…’

‘What have you fucking done, you stupid, stupid cunt!’

‘Use me,’ I told him. Save him having to find someone else, save having to put someone else through this… If there is no saving any of us, I would rather take the girl’s place. I would rather take his daughter’s heart. A hope that, if he agreed, I would die during the operation. Even if I didn’t though - I am the only one who truly deserves to be here. The man downstairs, this girl… None of them deserved this. We’re all only here because of me and I couldn’t let this go on any longer.

It had gone on long enough already.

‘Use you?’

‘Use me. I will look after the heart. I will look after you…’

‘Use you? Why would I want to use a murdering skank such as yourself? You were only here because I wanted to give you a chance to redeem yourself but you couldn’t even do that, could you?’

He looked back to the body.

I looked too.

Victoria’s eyes were closed. She looked asleep. She looked peaceful. I had

saved her from further pain. I saved her from this nightmare I had unwittingly dragged her into.

‘You stupid cunt.’

I jumped as he lunged across the room. His hands wrapped around my throat with a pressure which cut off my air. I felt the blood rush to my head as I instinctively clawed at his hands with my nails.

‘If you can’t be trusted to do as you are told, what good are you?’

His words sounded echoey as my vision started to fade him from my sight. His eyes bulging with anger as he stared down at me.

‘Don’t think I am giving you peace… People like you…’

The Doctor

‘… go straight to hell…’

She’d stopped scratching my hands and her eyes were fixed to mine. I gave her neck another hard squeeze to ensure all the air was gone and then, I fell back onto the carpeted floor in a seated position, exhausted.

I’m not sure how much time went by before I felt myself “come too”. I’m not even sure where my mind had gone in those vacant moments. Slowly, almost afraid to look, I glanced over to where Victoria lay. I couldn’t help but let out a wail. Seeing her there, the way she looked even before death’s shroud covered her, so strikingly similar to my daughter. Seeing her there, like this, it was like seeing my daughter’s own body all over again. Not wanting to keep reminding myself I turned away and my eyes fell upon the other corpse in the room. This cunt. This woman who ruined everything. Everything for me. Just as I cannot stomach to look at Victoria anymore, neither can I stomach to look at her either. She’d ruined it all.

I rolled onto all fours before standing, keeping my back to the two dead bodies. I walked from the room, using the walls, then the doorway and then the walls of the hallway to steady myself on my feet. My legs felt like jelly with the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

At the top of the stairs I slumped back down. The top step was now my seat. I felt lost, unsure of what to do now or even how best to proceed. I had everything in place, everything sorted and ready to go and now…

I smiled and stood back up. I hurried down the stairs, back towards my side of the house. I know exactly what I have…

Tony Cassell

The tears have finally stopped but the thoughts of my wife - and my children - remain. Knowing what is coming tomorrow, I just wish it would hurry up and get here. I just wish it would all be over. Let him put me to sleep peacefully so that I never need wake again. If this is to be it, it’s not a bad way to go. I know many a person who’d give their right arm to go in their sleep. I just have to give my heart.

Not my heart.

His daughter’s heart.

My heart has probably been incinerated along with the rest of the medical waste. A sobering thought if ever I needed another.

Fuck.

Why do we have to wait until tomorrow?

Why can’t he just do it now? Or at least put me under so that I don’t lie here with a racing heart, panicking about what is coming. Surely he would have preferred that? The stress I am feeling now… Surely it can’t be good for the heart? The way my heart is racing - it doesn’t feel as though it’s too healthy. A feeling like my heart is going to explode at any given moment.

My heart? There I go again.

Not my heart.

My heart is gone.

This is her heart.

The door opened at the top of the stairs. No doubt it is his wife again, come to check on me before she herself turns in for the night. No. Not her. Heavier footsteps.

I looked over to see him coming down the stairs.

He was smiling at me. A smile usually brings someone comfort but - the way he was looking - there was something truly disconcerting about it.

‘Change of plans,’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’

He walked over to my bed and sat next to me. As he did so, he pulled out a stethoscope from his back pocket. I watched as he put it around his neck.

He lifted my shift and I flinched as he pressed the cold metal of the stethoscope against my chest. I couldn’t help but notice some tears start to form in his eyes as he began to listen to the thumping of his daughter’s heart.

‘You might want to get comfortable,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be around for a little while longer yet.’

Author Bio

Matt Shaw is the author of over 200 published works. As well as appearing in a number of anthologies, Matt’s work has been translated into French, German, Korean and Japanese. His work has also been adapted into graphic novels and - more recently - film.

Having successfully crowdfunded a feature film, in 2018 Matt Shaw adapted his best-selling novel MONSTER into a screenplay (with Shaun Hutson acting as script consultant) and then went on to direct it himself. The film starred Rod Glenn, Tracy Shaw (Coronation Street), Laura Ellen Wilson and Danielle Harold (Eastenders). Having broken his “film cherry”, Matt is currently producing two more feature films - one an original piece which he wrote for screen (Next Door) and a second based on another of his novellas (Love Life).

Matt tours both the UK and the US on regular book signings but - if you’re unable to get to where he is - there is also a store where you can purchase signed merchandise direct from him over on ETSY. Simply look up The Twisted World of Matt Shaw where you’ll find exclusive downloads, his infamous DeadTed bears and more…

Want to stay up to date with Matt? He can be found on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. There is also a fan club which has exclusive stories, early reads, behind the scenes information and a whole lot more - available on Patreon!

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Check out www.mattshawpublications.com