I held my breath. Heard his. Panting. How much did the trolley hide? Was he listening? I counted. One, two, like hide and seek but don’t giggle, three, no game this, please, help me, please, four, with a cut there is always that delay, the gap between the knife cutting the flesh and the brain realising, sending the messages, admitting the pain, spittle on his lips…
The door swung shut.
‘Get up!’ He leant back, his large frame covering most of the door.
I uncurled, helped Agnes to her feet. Goulden stood, breathing noisily, his head tilted back, hands in his pockets, staring at us through half-closed eyes. We waited. The danger was palpable. Could he smell my fear? Had Tina Achebe waited, cornered like this, time suspended, her senses lucid and singing bright with premonition?
He pushed himself away from the door and moved towards us.
‘Wait,’ I began, ‘can’t we just…’ God knows what I was going to say, some platitude about talking about things reasonably, I suppose. He came right up close to me, put his hand behind my back. I caught a whiff of his lemony aftershave and the rank odour of sweat. He stepped away suddenly, some thing white in his hand, not the knife. As he moved I felt the burning sensation. Like a wasp sting. And with it a sense of outrage at being hurt, righteous indignation. Then I panicked. What had he injected me with? A sedative? Something worse? Must ask him. I tried to speak but my tongue was stuck, swelling. Would I die? What a crummy way to die. Tell me. Can’t move my lips. Head floating, falling, dissolving.
Cold air. The smell reminded me of school.
Agnes was cradling my head in her lap. That was nice. Her woollen coat was warm on the back of my head and a little itchy on my ear.
‘Sal?’ A whisper.
I moved to sit up. It was harder than I’d remembered. Everything shook. My muscles hurt, like the flu or the trembly exhaustion after giving birth. My trousers were damp. I must have wet myself.
‘Oh, Agnes.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I was hoarse. I finally got myself into a sitting position. My throat felt as though it had been sandpapered. My tongue was so dry, sore. And my head, there was a piercing pain in my temples.
‘Where are we?’ I looked around.
‘Malden’s,’ she replied, ‘in the warehouse. This is all paper goods.’ We were in a large, featureless room. No windows, one door. The walls were lined with shelving which held boxes of paper towels, toilet rolls and the like. Paper and card, the smell of the school store cupboard.
‘He drove us here from the hospital,’ she said. ‘No one stopped him?’