The suit man pushes the barrel of his gun closer to me, and snaps, “Tell us where the money is, or this will go badly.”
Ope. Put a star next to that. I’ll make do with a career,if I live.
“Please,” I say. Three years I’ve wasted, not talking to my neighbour. And now I’ll probably never speak to him. “I haven’t got any money.”
I’ve frittered away my whole life. I just didn’t realise it was going to be so short.
They say more, demanding to know where my parents are. Asking what the cash was spent on. What they did with it, where it is.
I say that I don’t know. I repeat it because it’s the truth.
I’m not fully in my body. I’m a bunny in headlights as the men get more and more angry. And all I can think is that I should have used one of those stupid excuses to get my neighbour alone. I should have just propositioned him, because now he’ll never even know my name.
Presumably, my space-cadet thing makes the men believe I’m no threat. The taller one in the suit keeps his weapon aimed at me, but they don’t tie me up or anything.
“Una stupida,” the fake plumber says, and I don’t need any language skills to translate that.
But in an instant, I can see that my fear of certain death has given me an advantage. The suit man’s gun isn’t directed right at me anymore, since he’s looking over his shoulder at his companion.
They start discussing something in Italian. This is my chance. If I can just reach my phone, I can try to call for help. But of course, my summer dress has no pockets, and my phone is at my desk, out of reach.
Death because of lack of pockets is possibly the most feminist point ever made.
Crap.
Could I sneak over while they’re distracted? I move slowly, my heart vibrating like a broken washing machine on a spin cycle. Keeping my gaze trained on the side of the man’s head, I shift. They could shoot me, but for now… Another few inches. My muscles scream at the tension I’m putting them under as I almost hover on top of the sofa cushions and stretch out my arm. My desk is two feet away.
“Okay, I think… What?!”
At the words I turn, and the smack to my face comes out of nowhere.
I spin with the force of it, and unbalance, falling to the tiled floor, hard.
Pain cracks through my head and cheek, and for a moment it’s so sharp it steals the air. The shock takes my capacity to move, to think, to anything, threatening darkness.
“Did you knock her out, you fuckwit?” one man snarls, andyes.Yes, that’s a good idea. I’m going to pretend to be knocked out.
My hair shifts, and for a second I think someone is touching me. Then I realise it’s blood.
Blood is seeping out of a wound on my scalp.
Rapid talk, and I don’t know if it’s because of the ringing in my ears that I can’t hear, or just it’s not English. Then there’s the sound of cruel laughter, and steps. I fight the instinct to flee, because they’re too close.
“We’ll dispose of her afterwards. Work first,” taller, black suit man says.
“Aw, you’re…”
“You can have your fun soon.”
I don’t have to feign lying still then. The horror and shock numb me.
You dispose of a half-eaten sandwich you didn’t want but felt bad about just eating crisps for lunch. You dispose of a receipt for a smutty book that you really couldn’t afford but bought, anyway.
“But—”
“You can have your fun, don’t worry,” the black suit man cuts the boilersuit man off. “But we need to search, since she’s not awake to tell us anything.”
“You look. I’ll stay here in case she wakes up.”
