Eleven

  Sweat had built up between the leather strap and her forehead. She would have reached up to try to wipe it away, but her wrists were likewise strapped, which, along with her ankles, bound her so very completely to the examination couch she found herself on.

  Samantha had no recollection of being moved. She could only assume that someone had relocated her whilst she was unconscious. Tied to the couch, watching Robert move about the room he had first examined her in, she hated him and every other godforsaken soul who perpetuated the place she had come to regard as Hell. If given the chance, she would kill them all.

  Robert had surprised her when he had apologised.

  ‘No one really likes the covering period,’ he had said as he had drawn blood from a vein in her arm. ‘But, you can rest assured that it’ll be a good little while before you have to see Lee again—’ Robert had caught himself and sighed. ‘Ah, what am I saying, I shouldn’t imagine you’ll ever have to see him again.’

  Samantha had said nothing. Her usually sharp tongue had been blunted, this time not by the drugs they tricked her into consuming but by the strength of her hatred for the man who pranced around in a white coat playing doctor. It’s what he wants, she had thought, biting her lip as the leather strap bit into the skin of her forehead. Why give him another thing to jerk off to?

  He had taken her blood and left her alone to stare at the ceiling tiles.

  Samantha had no way of knowing what had happened to Evelyn and Jade. All she could do was hope they were safe. Her friend Martha — will I ever see her again? — had half-heartedly believed in the power of manifestation. The ability to shape reality simply by believing something is true. Stolen, imprisoned, raped and impregnated by people she had never met before, the power of her own consciousness was the only tool Samantha had left.

  When Robert had returned he had been humming. Samantha had instinctively wondered what there was to be happy about, but then realised that, for Robert, there was every reason. He was living a life unrestrained by the rules everyone else was expected to follow; he could do whatever he wanted and take whatever he pleased. He is Poseidon. She remembered Evelyn — sweet, mouse-eyed, damaged, unadjusted Evelyn — and wanted to cry. Just another thing, she gulped down a sob, just another thing for him to jerk off to.

  Of course, life was not so simple for Robert. The sight of an outsider, especially one as imperceptive as Samantha, was rarely ever so clear. As much as Robert considered himself to be blessed — blessed to have Sophie for a wife, blessed to have three beautiful children, and blessed to be in good health — he was troubled.

  ‘It’s happy news,’ he smiled at Samantha. ‘You are indeed with child.’ She didn’t smile back and he had no expectation that she would. They are always so ungrateful, he thought, still smiling outwardly.

  ‘I will need to examine you further,’ he continued, moving to the desk, ‘to check you’re healthy and ready to carry this baby.’ From one of the drawers he pulled out a pair of latex gloves.

  Robert thought about how Alexander was slipping away from him. Slipping into a man very different from the one I had expected he would become. After so many months of separation, he was saddened to see Alexander withdraw from his company, apathetic to his work and all too eager to hurry off and spend time alone. Robert had hoped that his son would return with a fervour, enthusiastic and ready to learn more about the position he would one day inherit. And now I am slipping into my father! He shook his head as he lifted Samantha’s smock to above her knees. She tried to wriggle away from him, but the straps around her ankles, which creaked as she squirmed, held her legs in place.

  ‘Please hold still,’ he said, assertive yet gentle. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  A laugh. ‘Yeah, because you wouldn’t want to do that.’

  Looking up the length of her body, Robert could see that Samantha was snarling. Self-control, it seemed, was only able to withstand so much. Flaming and acidic, her eyes looked hot despite their cool colour. It was an expression Robert had seen many times — too many times — before. He stood up straight and moved away.

  Why do they never accept their fate? Accept what they were born to be.

  Robert sat on the stool in front of the desk and swivelled round to face her. ‘Samantha,’ he drew out the syllables of her name and softened the sounds to make them more pleasing, ‘I want you to live a life with no pressures — no anything.’ He paused to see if she would respond before continuing. ‘Your food, your shelter, your health, all taken care of.’

  ‘You call this being taken care of?’ Samantha spat from the examination couch. She was angry and believed she had every right to be, but she is wrong.

  Robert wheeled the stool closer to her, his breath warm on the side of her face. Strapped in place as she was, she was unable to turn her head to meet his gaze.

  ‘What else could you want?’ he asked softly.

  Samantha scoffed, the spittle that gathered in the corners of her mouth a visible sign of her contempt and disbelief. ‘How about my freedom!’

  Now it was his turn to laugh. ‘You believe that you were free before?’ The stool squeaked as Robert leant back. ‘Tell me, Samantha, how do you define freedom?’

  Surprisingly, there was not a hint of condescension in his tone. Rather, he was genuinely curious. Robert, like his son, was a man of contemplation. Whereas his father was a blunt instrument, only ever concerned with the end and never the means, he and Alexander were more refined in their processes. Only through learning, he told himself, can we achieve betterment. It was something that his ancestors had believed so thoroughly that they had designed their whole lives — and in turn the lives of their descendants — to be one great experiment. Learning in motion. Application and not supposition.

  ‘Not this,’ Samantha hissed. ‘It’s to make your own choices. Not be kidnapped by some perv and his fucking family, tricked and drugged by his wife and daughter, taken to —’

  ‘Daughter?’ Robert interrupted, concerned as to how she knew of Guinevere or Aurélie.

  Samantha’s face turned red as she strained against the head strap. ‘That ginger bitch,’ she snarled.

  ‘Ah, Mary,’ he said, relieved. ‘A good point, actually, Samantha. Where is she?’

  Robert crossed the room, leaving Samantha on the couch fuming and gnashing her teeth, her rant smitten from existence. He went to a tall chest of office drawers and unlocked the top drawer. Inside, there was a small black box, a wire running from it to the back of the drawer, then out and away to some unseen connection. He pushed a button on the box and a red light illuminated.

  ‘Mary,’ Robert said into the intercom. ‘Are you there?’

  The crackle of static was the only reply. He buzzed the Seat again and waited, but nothing.

  ‘I’ll try her phone,’ he said to himself as he pulled an old, silver flip phone from the drawer. He dialled but no one answered. Behind him, Samantha had gone quiet. ‘I shan’t be a moment,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. She continued to stare at the ceiling tiles.

  Running his fingers through his hair, he waited a few seconds before calling again. This time, she picked up.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Mary said, the sound of birds in the background. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Robert didn’t say anything and hung up. Closing the phone and slipping it into his pocket, he moved back to the examination couch. ‘Now,’ he said, beaming, ‘where were we?’

  Her cervix, the lowest part of her uterus, was already softer than it had been when he last examined her. Speedy work, he mused, ever impressed by Lee’s virility. In many ways he had been the most valuable asset on the homestead when Robert had inherited it from his father twelve years earlier.

  ‘Everything looks and feels as it should,’ Robert concluded, gently removing his fingers from Samantha’s vagina. ‘And you haven’t had any spotting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how do you feel? Any nausea?’

  ‘No.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said as he removed his gloves. ‘Although it may still be too early. Any breast tenderness?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Problems urinating?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then,’ Robert stood and stretched his legs, ‘you’re on track to have a perfectly healthy pregnancy. I will, of course, check on you throughout, and you must let me know if you experience any problems.’

  Robert deposited the gloves in the bin by the desk and then went to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he returned, he saw Samantha had tears in her eyes. He moved to stand over her. Softly, he placed a hand on her cheek and hushed her. ‘A great, easy life,’ he whispered as his thumb stroked her skin. ‘No responsibilities. No consequences. Everything taken care of.’ A single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped from her chin onto her chest. Tenderly, he hushed her again and said, ‘How is that such a great price?’ There is no use in fighting.

  A knock on the door and Mary entered the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ she apologised, visibly flustered as she smoothed her skirt. He removed his hand from Samantha’s cheek and waved her off.

  ‘It’s of no consequence,’ he said. ‘Samantha here is finished and impatient to meet the others. I’m sure she can manage by herself,’ he looked down at her and smiled, ‘but perhaps you would like to take her there all the same?’

  Cheeks still flushed from the outside, Mary nodded. She walked to the examination couch, the key to the Seat swinging on the chain around her neck, and nudged the brakes off the wheels with her shoe.

  ‘Oh no,’ Robert said, ‘I think Samantha would like to walk by herself.’ Effortlessly, the action having been much practised, he loosened the strap that bound her forehead. ‘That won’t be a problem — will it, Samantha?’

  She shook her head, the flames in her eyes extinguished.

  ‘Samantha understands that we are going to look after her,’ Robert continued, moving to undo the other straps. ‘And that you are going to take her to the best place for her.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mary said, looking at the other woman and attempting to imitate Robert’s buoyancy.

  Now free, Samantha sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the couch. She rubbed her wrists where the straps had been. The chains may have been slackened, but she knew she was still bound.

  ‘I think you will like it, no—’ Robert chuckled. ‘I know you will like it. We even have television.’

  Samantha didn’t say anything. It was simply of no use.

  ‘Go on, Mary will take you there.’

  Hands on hips, Robert watched them leave the room. Samantha first, Mary just behind. As she turned the corner, he called to her, ‘You have something in your hair, Mary.’ With a finger he signalled and she reached behind her head. A single yellow leaf.

  ‘Thank you,’ she blushed, before exiting with Samantha.

  Twelve

  Samantha’s aunt had been a cruel woman. Although now dead for five years, the influence that she had exerted over her brother’s daughter’s early years had been unrivalled. She had, after all, been one of the few female figures of Samantha’s childhood, a position that she had embraced so absolutely that her hug had transformed into a stranglehold. With no children of her own, and no husband or boyfriend to command, she had dominated her useless brother and his motherless child.

  As a girl, Samantha had always wondered where her grandparents had got the name Corinthia from. It was unusual for anyone in her family to have such a name, especially considering these were the same people who had named her dad Brian, but that was her aunt’s name all the same. As such, Corinthia wore her name as a badge of honour, a badge that explicitly stated she knew better than everyone else, and was allowed — no, obligated — to inform them of their inadequacies.

  Lazy was a word invented solely to describe Samantha’s intolerable predisposition — or so aunt Corinthia used to tell her. Storming through the front door every Saturday, arms laden with shopping bags, she would rail at her niece as she lay stretched out on the sofa in her pyjamas. It’s two o’clock, for heaven’s sake, Corinthia would scream, slamming the bags on the kitchen floor beside the fridge. How can you be so lazy, Samantha! She had always been like that — angry about something and everything.

  Of course, she had been correct. Samantha was lazy. Just perhaps not as lazy as her aunt accused her of being. Takeaway pizzas and back-to-back episodes of reality television shows were staples of Samantha’s teenage years. Rarely did she spend time outdoors other than to travel the distance between the house, the passenger door of the car, school, then back to the car. Exercise was anathema. It was a thing that other people did. Something to maintain or even improve your health. Something you did if you cared about looking after yourself. And Samantha rarely felt the need to do that. It was easier to eat crisps and watch television. And besides, the more Corinthia screamed at her, the more her mind and ears closed off to other possibilities.

  All of this was not to say that Samantha was overweight. She wasn’t. In fact, Samantha had — to her aunt’s persistent irritation — a remarkable ability to remain slender, despite all her neglect and laziness. Her dad always pulled out the deep fat fryer on Saturdays, even though that simply isn’t a fair or responsible thing to do as a father.

  I can still take her though, Samantha thought as Mary passed her in the corridor. She’s about my age. She’s only a bit taller than me. She doesn’t look any stronger. Mary reminded Samantha of her aunt. She thinks she’s better than me, and Samantha felt certain that the slight, smug, red-headed woman who she blamed for all that had been done to her wasn’t.

  Even so, she knew she had to wait for the right moment. They were still inside the building and there was simply no way she was getting out on a whim. If she was going to run, she had to have at least a vague idea as to where she was running. Leaving Robert’s office, she knew that the room she had first woken up in all those weeks before was somewhere to the left. They had drugged her that day, but she still recognised the basic white floor tiles, charmless white walls and hateful lighting. All this meant that, somewhere close by, there was a door to the outside.

  When she saw it, she hesitated. She had dreamt of escaping for weeks. At night, as Jade and Lee had slept together on the bed, and Evelyn lay passed out on the sofa in the other room, Samantha had poked and picked at every crack she came across. If she could have found a hole, she would have made it bigger. If a screw had been loose, she would have loosened it some more. But there had never been an opportunity. The chains had always been so tight — until now. He undid the straps, she thought, why would he do that? And now she could see that thick, metal door — a door she knew led to the outside.

  It took a lot of courage to elbow Mary to the side and run to that door, courage which, until that very moment, Samantha had doubted she was capable of mustering. I am not lazy, she screamed inside as her bare feet slapped against the tiles. I can do things for myself. Her hair, thick and tangled, billowed behind her like a cape. She was a superhero. First, she would free herself and then come back for the others. She imagined going to the police, crying at the station as she told them about all the abuse she had suffered. She imagined Robert being led away in handcuffs and Mary being stuffed into a police car. Watch your head, miss, the kindly officer would say as he guided her, hands bound, into the back of his car.

  As she locked her fingers around the door’s cold, metal handle, she thought of her dad, of all the worrying he must have done, of all the horrible, dark thoughts he must have suffered in the weeks since his only child’s sudden disappearance. Does he think I’m dead? If she could take back all the things she had said to him in the past, she would have. Thinking of the pain he must have been feeling was almost worse than the pain she had herself endured.

  She was certain she felt the handle give under her weight. But then she felt something else, a tightness around her waist whose suddenness winded her. Coughing to catch her breath, Samantha felt the door slip from her grasp.

  She lost her balance as she was yanked backwards. Flailing, Samantha tried to steady herself on the walls of the corridor as she was twisted through the air. Mary’s elbow struck her cheek and sent her to the floor. It was more the shock than the pain which stunned her. Before she was able to react, Mary kicked Samantha onto her side, moving her back away from the wall with her shoe as though she were a scrap of rubbish on the floor. Mary said nothing, her eyes empty and expressionless.

  Samantha tried to fight as Mary grabbed her from behind and locked her arms around her chest, but the other woman’s strength was incredible, her grip so constricting that Samantha winced as she was dragged upright, Mary’s clenched fists digging into her collar bone. On her back, she felt a sharpness as the key that Mary wore ragged the gaps between her ribs. Their heads were pressed together, Mary breathing down her neck and into her ear. Her curly hair merged with Samantha’s, and it smelt like apples and cinnamon as it tickled her nose.

  Mary dragged Samantha down the corridor. Wriggling and writhing, screaming and shouting, her bottom slid on the tiles all the way back to where she had instigated her futile attempt at escape. Robert had left his office and was now standing with his arms folded across his chest in the middle of the corridor. He watched on as Mary retrieved his patient, not saying anything until Samantha was crumpled at his feet.

  ‘I gave you the chance to cooperate, Samantha,’ he said, almost too quiet to hear. ‘I gave you freedom — the ability to make your own choice. And you made yours.’

  Samantha tried to lunge for his leg, but Mary yanked her back, crushing her chest even more and pulling the collar of her smock up against her throat.

  ‘The sting on your cheek,’ Robert continued unfazed, ‘is a consequence of your freedom. Surely it is better to live a life without consequence? A life without freedom?’