Behind Closed Doors(75)

On the third day, mindful perhaps that he had neglected to feed me the day before, Jack brought me breakfast. When he saw that the tray he had brought me two days previously was untouched, he looked at me curiously.

‘Not hungry?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘In that case, I’ll take your breakfast back down to the kitchen.’

He left, taking both meals with him, and without food around it was easier. To help me ignore the hunger pains, I meditated. But when I still hadn’t eaten anything by the weekend, nor touched any of the wine he had brought me, Jack got suspicious.

‘You’re not on some kind of hunger strike, are you?’ he hazarded as he picked up another tray of uneaten food and replaced it with a fresh one.

I shook my head lethargically. ‘I’m just not hungry, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’

I took a while in replying. ‘I suppose I never really thought it would come to this,’ I admitted, picking nervously at the bedcover. ‘I always thought that, in the end, I’d find a way of saving Millie from you.’

‘Let me guess—you thought that good would triumph over evil or that a knight in shining armour would come along and rescue you and Millie from your fate.’

‘Something like that.’ I let a sob catch my throat. ‘But it’s not going to happen, is it? Millie is going to move in with us and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘If it’s any consolation, there never was anything you could do about it. But I’m glad you’ve begun to accept the inevitable. It will make everything easier for you in the long run.’

I nodded at the glass of wine on the tray he’d just brought me, trying to ignore the chicken and potatoes that looked so delicious. ‘I don’t suppose I could have a whisky instead of the wine, could I?’

‘Whisky?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know you drank whisky.’

‘And I didn’t know you were a psychopath. Just bring me a whisky, Jack,’ I went on, rubbing my eyes tiredly. ‘I used to drink it with my father, if you must know.’

I felt him looking at me, but I kept my head bowed in what I hoped was a picture of misery. He left the room, locking the door behind him. I had no way of knowing whether he would bring me the whisky I’d asked for and the smell of the chicken was so tantalising that I began a slow count, promising myself that if he hadn’t come back by the time I got to a hundred I would eat the lot. I wasn’t even at fifty when I heard his footsteps on the stairs. At sixty, the key turned in the lock and I closed my eyes, knowing that if he hadn’t brought me a whisky I would probably burst into tears, because the effort of denying myself food for almost a week would have been for nothing.

‘Here.’

I opened my eyes and looked at the plastic cup he was holding out to me. ‘What is it?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘Whisky.’ I made to take it, but he pulled his hand back. ‘First, eat. You’ll be no good to me if you’re too weak to look after Millie.’

Although his words chilled me, they also told me that I was on the right track, because he had never given in to any of my demands before, not even when I had asked for a larger towel to dry myself with. But I supposed that with his end goal in sight he couldn’t afford to let anything happen to me, which meant he was more likely to give in to any requests I made as long as they were reasonable. It was a major triumph and, although I had planned to hold out a little longer before eating, I reasoned that if I wanted Jack to bring me more whisky I would have to meet him halfway. But I wanted him to bring it to me as soon as he got in from work, I wanted him to get into the habit of pouring my whisky at the same time as he poured his.

‘I asked for whisky because I hoped it would give me an appetite,’ I said, my arm still outstretched. ‘So can I have it, please?’

I expected him to refuse, but after a small hesitation he handed it to me. I raised the cup to my lips with pretend eagerness. The smell made my stomach turn, but at least I knew it was whisky I was about to drink and not something else. Conscious of his eyes on me, I took a sip. I had never drunk whisky before in my life and the bitter taste was a shock.

‘Not to your liking?’ he mocked, and I knew he didn’t really believe that I liked whisky and had only given it to me to find out what my real motive was in asking for it in the first place.

‘Have you ever drunk whisky out of a plastic cup?’ I demanded, taking another sip. ‘Believe me, it doesn’t taste quite the same. Maybe you can bring it in a glass next time.’ I raised the cup again and knocked the whole lot back.