Sam is asleep. I could kill him now. His face is turned from me – it wouldn’t be hard. Would he stir if I moved? Try and stop me? Or would he just be glad that this nightmare was over?
I can’t think like that. I must try to remember what is real, what is good. But when you’re a prisoner, the days seem endless and hope is the first thing to die.
I rack my brains for happy memories to hold off the dark thoughts, but they are harder and harder to summon.
We’ve only been here ten days (or is it eleven?), yet normal life already seems like a distant memory. We were hitching back from a gig in London when it happened. It was pouring with rain and a succession of cars had sailed past without a second look. We were soaked to the skin and about to turn back, when finally a van pulled over. Inside, it was warm and dry. We were offered coffee from a flask. Just the smell of it was enough to cheer us up. The taste was even better. We didn’t realize that it would be our last taste of freedom.
When I came to, my head was pounding. Blood coated my mouth. I wasn’t in the warm van any more. I was in a cold, dark space. Was I dreaming? A noise behind me made me start. But it was only Sam stumbling to his feet.
We’d been robbed. Robbed and dumped. I scrambled forward, clawing at the walls that enclosed us. Cold, hard tiles. I crashed into Sam and for a brief moment held him, breathing in that smell I love so much. Then the moment passed and we realized the horror of our situation.
We were in a disused diving pool. Derelict, unloved, it had been stripped of the boards, signs and even the steps. Everything that could be salvaged had been. Leaving a deep smooth tank that was impossible to climb out of.
Was that evil shit listening to our screams? Probably. Because when we finally stopped, it happened. We heard a mobile phone ringing and for a brief, glorious moment thought it was someone coming to rescue us. But then we saw the phone’s face glowing on the pool floor beside us. Sam didn’t move, so I ran. Why did it have to be me? Why does it always have to be me?
‘Hello, Amy.’
The voice on the other end was distorted, inhuman. I wanted to beg for mercy, explain that they’d made a terrible mistake, but the fact that they knew my name seemed to rob me of all conviction. I said nothing, so the voice continued, relentless and dispassionate:
‘Do you want to live?’
‘Who are you? What have you done to u-’
‘Do you want to live?’
For a minute, I can’t reply. My tongue won’t move. But then:
