I stop, wrestling for control over my emotions, over my mind. Later, I can feel anything I want to. Right not, I can’t afford to think of how big these men will be, how I won’t be able to fight them off if they want to hurt me. I won’t think of what weapons they might have or how ready they’ll be to use them.
A second passes, then another. My body thaws until I can tiptoe along the hallway, keeping as close to the far wall as I can while slipping past the ajar kitchen door.
From there, I can move a little quicker. One enormous step over the squeaky floorboard outside the bathroom, then I’m at my bedroom door, easing it open while my entire face winces, anticipating a rusty squeak from the hinges.
But my luck holds. Either that or the WD40 has finally worked. It swings inward with barely a sound and when I close it behind me, I sag against it in relief.
I step away after a moment, the hammering of my heart returning to a normal level. I cross to the bed and drop to my knees, reaching an arm under. My fingers brush against the toy, stuffed in the corner, but I can’t get purchase. With a sigh, I lay flat on the floor and wriggle underneath.
A door slams farther along the hallway and I freeze, breath catching in my throat. The man with the lower voice is speaking into a phone, his tone sharp with urgency. I can make out maybe one in three of his words. Not enough to make sense of the conversation. There’s a loud banging on the hallway wall, then a muffled shout, then nothing.
I wait until a full minute has passed without a return of the voice, then snag the toy and unzip the stuffing pouch. Hidden in the middle of the springy cotton is a small velvet ring box, in red with my mother’s initials imprinted in gold, and my throat tightens as I clutch it in my hand.
My mum’s ring box.
I’ve thought to sell the contents a dozen times over the past year; to use as a buffer so the threats against Dad’s life didn’t escalate. The closest I came to actually doing so was just before he told me we needed to run.
Now, I’m glad I held onto them. Hopefully, they’re enoughto sort out the debt for today. Assuage the men beating my father. Buy him a few days. Maybe a week.
Enough time for us to run again, even though the thought makes me exhausted. Still, it’s not like I’ve settled into our new city. It won’t be as hard to leave here as it was to leave my family, my friends, myboyfriendup in Auckland.
The door to my room swings open and I go rigid in horror. A dump of adrenaline lands in my system, sending every nerve into code red, tripping my anxiety into extreme mode.
“Don’t hang up on me,” the man says in a rumble that makes every hair on my body stand to attention. “You’re coming along to the party tonight. Everything’s arranged.”
There’s a burst of shrill energy from his phone and his voice takes on an even more menacing air. “Don’t you dare do this. I don’t give a shit about your reasons. Don’t you dare embarrass me.”
Another trill of frenetic speech bursts from his phone’s speaker, and he paces the width of my room, his foot kicking against the wall before he turns, and his footsteps tread back towards my corner.
I curl into a ball, trying to fold myself into the tiniest shape possible to avoid detection.
Stupid. The man’s having an argument with his girlfriend. He’s hardly going to stop and peek beneath the bed.
The thought does little to soothe me as the speed of his pacing picks up. The kick as he turns sounds like it’s denting the plaster. Much more damage and we’ll lose our security bond.
The thought hits my funny bone at full speed, high on adrenaline, making it seem like the wittiest, most laughable joke ever written. I squirm until I can clamp my hands over my mouth, terrified that hysterics will take hold and give away myhiding place.
“Jesus, it’s not like you have to do anything more than show up. I’ve arranged your dress, your hair, your makeup. How much fucking easier do you need things to be?”
His voice sounds oddly familiar, and I try to place it. An ad on TV? A late-night radio host? A teacher?
The recognition tugs at me, dancing around my straining ears like a word sometimes dances on the tip of my tongue.
Just as I want him to speak, there’s a pause, punctuated by him kicking his shoe into the far leg of the bed. The frame judders above me, the springs of the base taking his energy and doubling it. Rattling the side of the bed so I’m getting a vibration from it and from where my shoulder rests against the far wall.
“This isn’t funny.”
Another volley of kicks at the bed leg.
“If you don’t get your arse to the store before closing, we’re finished. Do you understand me?”
Another indignant squawk from the phone then his rage overflows. “Don’t you give me that! You know exactly how much this night means to our families. If you have even the slightest—”
He breaks off, punching into the wall, his knuckles digging through the tatty brocade paper, tearing into the plaster and gib hidden beneath.
“You think I like this situation?”
Another long pause, this time without the energetic punctuation.
