He’s right. I forgot the lottery part; the rest is familiar. My words. He is taunting me with my own words. ‘I love Nick and I love my kids,’ I tell him, crying. ‘Please, let me go! Put down the gun.’
‘It’s hard for Nick when you’re away, isn’t it? You have to hire a woman to help look after him and the kids or else things spiral out of control pretty quickly.’
Pam Senior. Pam helped Nick, the week I was at Seddon Hall. What does she have to do with any of this?
‘But if he goes away-not that he does very often. You’d like him to go away more often. If Nick goes away, your life gets easier. You’ve got the kids to look after, yes, but not the strewn newspapers and the discarded banana skins-’
‘Stop.’ My head throbs. I want to curl into a ball on the carpet, but I can’t. I have to try and get out. ‘Please, stop. You can’t honestly believe-’
‘What do you think of this room?’ He takes my phone from my hands, puts it back in his pocket and points the gun at my chest.
‘What?’
‘Tidy enough? It can hardly be messy. There’s nothing in it apart from the massage table, you and your bag. More furniture is on its way: a bookcase, a lamp. You don’t like it, do you?’ His voice shakes. ‘Can’t wait to get out. I did it up specially for you. The massage table wasn’t cheap, but I know how much you like your massages. And the carpet, and the lampshade. I chose everything for you.’
‘Including the lock for the door?’ I dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from howling.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry about the prop.’
‘What?’
‘The gun.’ He waves it at me. ‘I’m hoping I won’t need it for much longer.’
I’m too crippled by terror to work out if this is a threat. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘That’s up to you. Do you know how many times I painted these walls? At first I thought pale apricot, but it was too sickly. I tried yellow-too dazzling. And then a couple of weeks ago I thought of the obvious-white. Perfect.’
This can’t be happening. It cannot be that a madman has been creating a room in which to imprison me while I’ve been getting on with my life, completely unaware. My thoughts become more concrete and focused as it dawns on me that what he’s saying can’t be right. A couple of weeks? Two weeks ago, Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick were still alive. But… the carpet is new and the room smells of paint. He can’t have ordered the carpet since Geraldine and Lucy died. It would have taken longer than that…
As if he can read my mind, he says, ‘Your being here has nothing to do with the deaths that have been on the news. Maybe that influenced the timing a bit, but-’
‘I know who you are,’ I tell him. ‘You’re Amy Oliver’s father. Where are Amy and her mother? Did you kill them too?’ I don’t know anything; I’m guessing. But I’m starting to want to know. Maybe finding out the truth is the only way to understand him, my only chance of getting out of here.
‘Did I kill them?’ I’ve made him angry. ‘Look at me. Do I look like the sort of man who would kill his wife and daughter?’ He sees me staring at the gun. ‘Ignore this thing…’ He shakes it in the air, scowling at it as if it’s attached itself to his hand against his will. ‘Look at my face. Is it the face of a killer?’
‘I don’t know.’
He raises the gun, straightens his arm so that it’s closer to my face.
‘No,’ I manage to say. ‘You’re not a killer.’
‘You know I’m not.’
‘I know you’re not.’
He seems satisfied, and lowers the gun. ‘You must be absolutely famished. Let’s eat, and then I’ll give you the grand tour.’
‘Tour?’
He smiles. ‘Of the house, stupid.’
He has already laid the table. The meal is pasta covered in grey, gelatinous gloop, the same colour as the gun. There are flecks of green in the sauce and funny straight sticks that look like pine needles. My throat closes. I can barely breathe.
He tells me to sit. At the far end of the kitchen there is a round wooden table and two wooden chairs. At some point someone who lived here got carried away with small square tiles in primary colours. The room looks like something from a children’s TV programme.
‘Linguine with a leek and anchovy sauce,’ he says, putting down a plate in front of me. A spiral of leek, like a green snake, protrudes from the grey slime. The fishy, lemony smell makes me gag. ‘With parsley and rosemary. Incredibly nutritious.’ He sits down beside me.
So the pine needles are rosemary. I see a recipe book open on the surface beside the sink. A leather, tasselled bookmark lies across the double-page spread.
The back door has a glass panel in it, but I can see nothing that might smash it-no heavy-handled knives out on the work-surface, no chunky chopping-boards. All the counters are spotless, empty apart from the recipe book. The gun sits on the table, beside his right elbow.
He says, ‘I won’t offer you a glass of wine, if that’s all right. But I also won’t have any myself.’
I quell the scream that’s rising inside me and manage to nod. What is he talking about? His words make sense, yet at the same time they are completely incomprehensible. Through the glass in the door I see a large wooden shed and more potted plants, mainly cacti. The private space is enclosed by a high hedge and an even higher brick wall.
I am in a house that will be almost impossible to escape from.
‘Is the food all right?’
I nod.
‘You’re not really eating it.’ He chews and swallows noisily, questioning me in between mouthfuls. His noises make me feel sick. In the end, I force down everything on my plate in order to convince him of my gratitude.
When we’ve both finished, he says, ‘There’s no pudding apart from the healthy kind. If you’re still hungry there’s plenty of fruit. I’ve got apples, pears or bananas.’
‘I’m full. Thanks.’
He smiles at me. ‘How long has it been since someone looked after you, Sally?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I remember you telling me your ideal lunch was a drive-through McDonald’s. Do you remember what you said?’
‘No.’
‘I said, “You can’t possibly think McDonald’s burgers taste good.” And you said, “They taste brilliant to me, mainly because they’re quick and easy. I don’t even have to get out of the car. My taste buds are easily influenced.” ’
My stupid little McDonald’s appreciation speech. I’ve recited it so often, to so many people.
‘Do you remember telling me that every time Nick cooks he demolishes the kitchen, and it takes you at least two hours to reconstruct it afterwards?’
I blink away tears. I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand.
‘You don’t have to worry about mess with me.’ He gestures around the room. ‘No work for you to do at all.’
‘When can I phone my children?’
His face shuts down. ‘Later.’
‘I’d like to speak to them now.’
‘It’s not even lunchtime. They’re still at nursery.’
‘Can I phone Nick?’
He picks up the gun. ‘I still haven’t shown you round. This is the kitchen, obviously. It’s where I normally eat, but there’s also a dining room. It’s handy to have two dining areas, especially with children.’ A quick glance at his face tells me he is serious.
He thinks he’s introducing me to my new home.
‘You’ve got children?’ I try to sound matter-of-fact.
His face shuts down. ‘No,’ he says, looking away.
Fear presses down on my heart. It takes me a while to rise to my feet. He pretends not to notice the state I’m in as he leads me round the house, one hand on my arm. From time to time, he says, ‘Cheer up!’ in an unconvincingly hearty voice, as if my distress embarrasses him and he doesn’t know how to react.