Alfie pokes his head in through the door and throws me a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt with a graphic of some rock band on it. While I’m drowning myself in oversized clothes, he locates a hairband and hands it to me.
I stare at it, a boulder sinking into my stomach. How many times had I wished for one of these the past week? All the other times I was locked in the cell over the years? The way strands would stick to my damp face, my neck, my shoulders and back. It would itch, scratch and tickle over and over like insects until I was trying to rip it out of my scalp. Clumps of hair falling to the ground in my fits of rage. And now it’s just… here. For my wet, clean, sweet-smelling hair that this man has just washed.
“You gonna take it?” Alfie says, wiggling the band in front of me.
I clear my throat and shove away the rising tears, taking it with a shaky hand. I still stare at it once I’m holding it. My hand starts trembling even more, the hairband vibrating vigorously between my fingers.
Alfie sighs and takes it back off me. “Turn around.”
I look up to meet those blue eyes which just scream impatience and annoyance. I turn around.
His large hands come up to the top of my scalp and I flinch. My shoulders fly up to my ears. I curl up, clenching, waiting for the yank, the whiplash of my neck being dragged back. But it doesn’t come.
His hands rake through my wet hair and get caught on several knots. “You’ll get your strength back soon. With proper nutrition and recovery. You should be able to do your own fucking hair.”
His patience seems to be fraying already. A small huff of frustration blows into the back of my head. “We’ll have to rewash this a few times. I’ll get some treatment that should help with the matted bits.”
All the hair is pulled off my face and neck, a cool air kissing the heated skin there. I stand through a few twists and then a bunch at the bottom of my scalp as he winds my hair into a bun and locks it there with the band.
His hands land on my shoulders and spin me round to him. “Better?”
I nod slowly. This whole situation is completely foreign. No one’s ever done my hair for me. No one.
“Let’s get you some food. I’ve got to feed the dogs now, anyway.” Alfie takes my hand and leads me away.
The warmth of his rough skin shoots through me. Bodily contact – how long has it been? So much of it so soon after meeting this man. There’s a security that comes with him.Whether it’s involuntary or not, he’s taking his job to care for me seriously. He could be anything but nice to me. He could be cruel, rough, aggressive. But he’s not. He’s leading me away like my own personal guard, beelining for wherever it is we need to go, the protective air about him floating back to me as he leads me down dark halls with high, ribbed vaulted ceilings. My legs still feel shaky and weak and Alfie does me the courtesy of going at a slow pace.
He gives me a vague tour as we pass. This place has a gazillion doors. He points out Fiz’s bedroom along the hall, his bedroom, an office. The walls are painted black, sconces are placed sporadically along the top, emanating a dim glow. Then downstairs: a gym, the main car garage with a huge BMW in it and space for two others, another smaller garage with a motorbike in it. This one looks more like a workspace, with a small utility room off to the side.
It’s got minimal décor, no paintings, no ornaments anywhere. Very glum, very miserable. I guess that sums up the owner. When we backtrack, he points out a room he calls “the den,” which just looks like a lounge. Bathrooms, spare rooms. More offices. Every room he opens to me is large and spacious, each with the bare necessities for whatever individual purpose the room serves.
He points to a couple of doors that are “out of bounds” to me, which only makes me want to open them. He openly tells me one of them is an armoury, with a not-so-subtle accusatory dialogue of: “It’s locked at all times, we have an inventory and it’s checked regularly.” Hint taken.
There’s no garden at the back of the house, my first glimpse of outdoors through passing windows is just trees. Alfie explains we’re in the middle of a forest. Fantastic. So, when I am ready to escape, I may have to steal one of their cars.
Don’t trust him, the darkness says as we walk down another dark hallway towards a lit-up room.
My arm pulls taut instantly, resisting him.
He turns back. “What is it?”
I wait for more guidance, a tip on my next move, but there’s just silence.
When I don’t answer, he tugs me back towards him and I’m powerless but to stumble forward. “It’s fine,” he says gently, “it’s just me and you. You’ve got Maggie milling about somewhere, she’s the keeper of the house, and you might see a maid or two, but no one who will be a threat, okay? It’s just me and you.”
That’s what’s worrying me. He’s being too nice. No one is ever this nice without wanting something in return. Usually something salacious and scarring.
He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, clearly losing the last bit of patience with me, but he doesn’t voice it. He closes the small distance between us, hand still covering mine as he comes to hover over me. My neck automatically tips up to keep my eyes on his so I can study him. He feels trustworthy, he feels safe.
“Elodie,” he says quietly, full of breath, like he’s talking to a lover. My weak knees wobble. “Nothing will happen to you, okay? We’re just going to get some food and we’ll chill together. You can go back up to bed if that’s what you want. Just let me feed you, please?”
Alfie clearly has the ability to make people do anything he wants. He’s not used to resistance. And he shouldn’t be, because the gentleness in his voice and reassuring words have my body working for him again. My feet start moving, he gives me a nod of approval, and we continue down the hallway.
My body works on autopilot, but the shakes are still there. Every step feels like it might be my last before my legs give out again, but I make it to the kitchen.
Everything is still black. There’s no life in this house. Black granite counters and appliances. The huge, long island in the middle is black. The light from the iron chandeliers above us doesn’t even touch the corners of the rooms, reflecting a flat glow on everything, the dark too strong to be overpowered. Therefore, I should feel right at home. But this isn’t home. I haven’t known what that feels like in a long time.
It’s open plan down here. It looks like we’re at the front and centre of the house. Two large, arched leaded windows bracket two front doors, which open to the cosy, minimal living room to the right of the kitchen. It has one long, dark grey sofa in the middle, two matching armchairs facing each other on either side, all around a long glass coffee table, which has what looks to be a large Lego box on top. Unopened.
