Stolen (36 page)

None of us talked on the taxi ride into the city. I stayed curled up, in Mum’s arms. My head was buzzing, recalling the way you’d spoken, remembering the things you’d told me about my life. You’d said my parents didn’t care, that they were only concerned about themselves and money; you’d said they wanted to move away. You’d made it sound so convincing.

I had to force my mind to go blank. I didn’t know what I would do if I started thinking again. I probably would have rolled right out of the taxi and got myself killed. Dad busied himself with the luggage and with sorting out somewhere to stay. I focused on the concrete shooting past … the pavement and buildings and pavement, the occasional tree. I focused on the faintly sweet smell of Mum’s blouse.

The driver pulled up outside a block of dark gray apartment buildings.

“Serviced apartments,” he grunted. “They’re new. No one knows they’ve opened yet.” He waited for a tip.

We walked in, my blank expression masking what was going on inside me. Mum took the key and led me through the foyer, Dad did the explaining. My legs shook as Mum helped me up the stairs.

Once inside the apartment, I snapped. I slammed the door and reached for the first thing I could find—a lamp—and I hurled it against the freshly painted beige wall. Its china base shattered on impact, shards flying everywhere. Then I picked up something else—a vase—and hurled that, too. Mum ducked for cover. Her eyes were wide and shocked as she started moving toward me, but I grabbed the next nearest thing and held it out at her before she got to me. It was a small electric fan, still plugged in with its blades whirring. The cord was taut over my arms. I was ready to throw that, too.

“What’s wrong?” Her eyes didn’t leave mine.

I shook my head, tears running down my face. “Tell me something,” I whispered. “Did you want to move away, next year, without me? Did you ever talk about that with Dad?”

“What?” Mum’s eyebrows shot up. “No, of course not! Who told you this?”

She moved toward me, but I held the fan between us, ready to throw it at her face. The plug was straining in the socket. She saw in my eyes not to come any closer. Every part of me was shaking, every part of me going mad.

“I hate it, all of this,” I screamed, my voice breaking. “I even hate him, even him.” A huge sob came up from my chest.

And I did, right then. I hated you for everything; for making me feel so helpless everywhere I went, for making me lose control. I hated you for all the emotions in my head, for the confusion … for the way I was suddenly doubting everything. I hated you for turning my life upside down and then smashing it into shards. I hated you for making me stand with a whirring fan in my hand, screaming at and questioning my mum.

But I hated you for something else, too. Right then, and at every moment since you’d left me, all I could think about was you. I wanted you in that apartment. I wanted your arms around me, your face close to mine. I wanted your smell. And I knew I couldn’t—
shouldn’t
—have it. That’s what I hated most. The uncertainty of you. You’d kidnapped me, put my life in danger … but I loved you, too. Or thought I did. None of it made sense.

I growled in my throat, frustrated at myself. Mum took a cautious step toward me.

“It’s all right to be confused,” she whispered. “The people we … care for … aren’t always the ones we should …” She frowned, wondering if she’d got it right.

A noise came through my teeth then, from deep in my chest.

“Don’t tell me anything,” I snarled. “No more words!”

I yanked the fan from the plug, holding it between us, keeping her away from me with it. I pushed it toward her, and she jumped backward, stumbling over the coffee table.

“But, Gemma!” she whispered. “I love you!”

And I threw the fan, in the same direction as the lamp, its blades still whirring as it hit the wall.

We stayed in Perth. Even with the stuff I smashed, they let us keep the apartment.

It’s still more than a month until the trial, despite the court agreeing to prioritize your case. And the apartment complex couldn’t refuse the money Dad offered for keeping things quiet.

My emotions bounce. Some days it feels better knowing you are here, in the same city, knowing you are close. Some days that same thought fills me with fear. But either way, I think of you in your cell every night. My stomach still twists when Mum opens the windows and lets in the eucalyptus smell from outside.

Our full-service apartment feels a little like a prison, too, with its gray colors and cleanliness; the way that I can’t leave it without someone taking my picture. From its windows I stare out at the city … at the concrete and buildings, cars and suits. Some days I imagine the land that lives beneath it all, red and dormant; the land you love. I imagine it coming alive again one day. Then my mind drifts back to the desert; to the open spaces of color and pattern. I miss it, that endlessness.

The police officer in charge of the case has visited me twice already. After my fan-throwing incident, Mum called Dr. Donovan, too. She comes most days, and I don’t mind talking to her. She doesn’t push me too hard, just lets me talk when I want to … when I can.

It was Dr. Donovan who suggested I write this, actually. Only, she didn’t suggest that I write it to you. Course not. She just gave me the laptop. She just told me to write.

“If you can’t speak about your experiences, write them down,” she said. “Get all your thoughts out, anyway you can, start a journal, maybe … whatever makes it easiest. You need to try to understand this whole big thing that’s happened to you.”

And I’m trying to, believe me. I’d love to understand all this. But the only way I can is to write this journal—this letter—to you. After all, you were the only person out there with me … the only person who knows what happened. And something did happen, didn’t it? Something powerful and strange. Something I can never forget, no matter how hard I try.

Dr. Donovan thinks I’ve got Stockholm syndrome. They all do. I know I scare Mum when I say something good about you, when I say you’re not as bad as people think, or that there’s more to you than what the papers write. And if I say anything like that in front of Dr. Donovan, she just makes lots of notes and nods to herself.

So I’ve stopped saying these things. Instead, I tell them what they want to hear. I tell them you really are a monster, that you are screwed up. I tell them I don’t have any feelings for you other than hatred. I go along with everything the police say I have to say. And I’ve written the statement they want me to write. I try to believe it all.

I wish I had amnesia so I could forget what you look like. I wish I felt good about letting you go to prison for ten or fifteen years. I wish I could believe everything the papers write. Or that my parents tell me. Or that Dr. Donovan says. It’s not as if I don’t understand where they’re all coming from. I’ve also wanted you dead.

And, let’s face it, you did steal me. But you saved my life, too. And somewhere in the middle, you showed me a place so different and beautiful, I can never get it out of my mind. And I can’t get you out of there, either. You’re stuck in my brain like my own blood vessels.

I’ve just taken a small break to walk around the garden at the back of the apartment complex. It’s not much of a garden; just paved, with a few potted plants and shrubs. I sat on the tiles and looked up at the skyscrapers around me. I could almost feel you, somewhere in this city, not far away. I could almost hear your soft cough. You were thinking of me, too. I shut my eyes and tried to imagine what it will be like. Will I be scared when I see you, or will I feel something else?

You will be chained up, your strong arms still. You won’t be able to hurt me, or touch me. Will your eyes plead, or will they bore into mine with anger? How have they treated you, in there? Have your nightmares returned? One thing is certain: When we next meet, I will be looking at you with the whole legal system between us.

I thought that when I got to this point in this letter, I’d understand something. I’d realize why all this has happened, why you came into my life … why you chose me. Sometimes I think you’re still just as messed up as that first day I met you in the park. And sometimes I think about your plan of living out there in the heat and the endlessness and the beauty, and whether it would have worked. Mostly I don’t know what to think.

But writing all this down is doing something. When I write this in bed, I can almost hear the echo of the wind over the sand, or the groans of wooden panels around me. I can almost smell the dustiness of the camel, taste the bitterness of saltbush. And when I dream, your warm hands cover my shoulders. Your whispers carry stories and sound like the rustle of spinifex. I still wear that ring, you know … at night, when no one is watching. It’s in my pocket now. I’ll hide it before the police officers come this afternoon.

They want to discuss what I’m going to say when I get up in the witness box. And I suppose I should think about that. It’s just … I’m not yet sure what exactly it will be. That day in court could have two different endings, but it will start the same way.

It will be a Monday morning, just before nine. The media will be waiting. I’ll be sandwiched between Mum and Dad, keeping my head down, and we will have to push through the reporters and commuters and onlookers. Some of them will grab at me, shove microphones in my face. Mum will be holding my hand so tightly that her nails will dig into my skin. Dad will be wearing a suit. Mum will have chosen something black and sensible for me, too.

We’ll step inside the High Court, and it will be quieter there immediately. That big grand entrance hall and all those suits will somehow muffle us. We’ll find Mr. Samuels, the prosecution lawyer. He’ll ask if I’ve had a chance to reread my statement. Then he’ll usher my parents into the courtroom, the main courtroom, and I’ll hear talking and movement for a moment before the door thuds behind them. Then I’ll be left outside, on a cold leather chair, with nothing but my thoughts.

After some time, a time that will feel longer than it is, the door will open again. Then it’ll be my turn. My testimony. The air will be tense like a trampoline, waiting for me to bounce. Everyone will look. Even if they think it’s impolite, still they will look. The court artist will begin drawing my face. But I’ll only be looking at one person.

You’ll be sitting in the dock, your hands clipped together. Your eyes will be searching for mine, too, wide as the ocean. You’ll need me now. So I’ll make my decision. Then I’ll turn my face from you.

And it will start just as it should. They will ask my name, my age, my address. Then it will get interesting. They’ll ask me how I know you.

In the first instance, I’ll tell them exactly what they want to hear. I’ll tell them how you followed me, how you … stalked me … from such an early age. I’ll tell them how you came to the UK to look for your mother and instead found drink and drugs … and then me. I’ll tell them about your inability to fit in, about your deluded thoughts about the desert and me being your only escape.

Then the lawyers will ask me about the airport, and I’ll tell them that you drugged me and stole me. I’ll tell them that you shoved me in the trunk of your car and held me against my will. I’ll tell them about the long, lonely nights in that small wooden shack and about being locked in the bathroom … how I waited for you to kill me. I’ll tell them about your angry outbursts and instability, your lies, and I will tell them how you grabbed me so hard sometimes that you made my eyes water and my skin turn red.

And I won’t look at you through that testimony. I’ll just say what they expect.

“He’s a monster,” I’ll say. “Yes, he kidnapped me.”

And the judge will bash the little hammer and hand out a sentence of fifteen years or so, and everything—everything—will finally be over.