Chapter Eleven
Bethany
It’s surprising how boring being the prisoner of a madman can be. I’m free to move about my cabin, now, but quickly lose interest in it. I do some yoga moves and jumping jacks, and then grow sleepy because there’s nothing to do, and lie down and have a nap.
Sometime later, someone opens my door and throws in two muesli bars. I fume at them lying on the carpet, tossed there like I’m some animal, and then get out of bed and pick them up. I chew them furiously sitting on the bed, fantasizing about all the ways I could take my revenge on Damir. Mikhail seems to have resorted to the law, throwing the evidence he has at the police’s feet and then going into hiding. That won’t work for me. Maybe I could castrate the bastard with a blunt knife.
When it’s dark, the man with the black ponytail brings me more food. This time it’s a chicken casserole made with tomatoes and olives. It’s lukewarm, as if I can’t be trusted not to make a weapon out of a hot meal. The paper plate my food sits on is soggy so I eat quickly, and drink the milky coffee it comes with. I have no bottled water so I drink out of the tap in the bathroom again.
Then I stare at the cabin door, wondering where I could position myself in order to get the jump on someone coming into the room. What weapon could I use against them? Maybe I could make a garrote from a piece of bedsheet, and when they come through the door I could slip it around their neck and pull it tight. Could I kill someone in that way? I imagine it carefully, the act of taking one of my captor’s lives. Ethically, emotionally, I think I could. I’d need loads of therapy once I got back to civilization, but after a few sessions I’d probably take it in my stride. These people are kidnappers, after all.
Physically, though? I remember Damir’s strong arms tight around my body as he held me to him, both to make me come and to restrain me. I press my thighs together and wince at the tingling sensation. The guy who’s been bringing me food is a foot taller than me and he works out. I might be able to get the ripped piece of bed sheet around his neck, but I just don’t have
the upper body strength to strangle him while he struggles to free himself.
I spend the remaining daylight hours doing push-ups and squats and yoga poses, to pass the time but also to keep up what little strength I have. Then I take a shower, and put my clothes back on my wet body because I have no towels. I peer out the window for a while, hoping to see lights in the dark, but it’s all inky blackness.
There’s nothing else to do, so I go back to bed and hope to sleep until morning.
I’m roused sometime later by the sense that something is wrong, but I can’t place what it is at first. Everything seems normal. The corridor beyond my door is calm and quiet. Then I realize what it is.
It’s too quiet.
The background hum of the yacht’s engine has died away. I get up and go to the window, peering out at the ocean and then as far as I can to the left and the right. It’s still pitch black out there. We haven’t pulled into a port. Maybe the crew have killed the engines because the plan is to stay here, in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe we’ve broken down.
My heart leaps at the thought. If we’re stranded, Damir and his men will have to put out a distress call. Other people mean the possibility of rescue. I alternate between peering out the port window and standing with my ear pressed against the door. Feet tramp up and down the corridor outside for a few minutes, and I call out, but I’m ignored. Then I hear voices raised in anger, though I can’t make out the words.
After about thirty minutes, the lights snap out.
I’m plunged into darkness, and the first tendrils of apprehension curl through me. What if the yacht’s been boarded by pirates or some other terrible group of people? I’m trapped, with no way to defend myself.
I start hammering on my door. “Hey! Hey, you guys out there! What the hell’s going on? Damir? Ponytail guy? Are you out there?”
Maybe there’s been a mutiny on board and someone’s hurt Damir, or even killed him. Maybe whoever it is has become sick of their crazy boss and is going to take us back home. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the coast guard or water police or something. My spirits lift, and I call out and bang on the door with renewed energy.
A key turns in the lock, and I stumble back. The door opens, and I blink in the sudden light. It’s not Damir, but one of his men, and he’s holding a torch.
Shielding my eyes from the glare, I ask, “What’s going on? Is the yacht in trouble?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says roughly, and I recognize his voice. Ponytail guy, and he seems wound up. “Stay in here, and quit making so much rack—”
There’s a blood-curdling masculine scream from somewhere down the corridor, and then a thud.
“What was that?” I gasp, as the same time ponytail guy spits a curse. He slams out of my cabin and his footsteps hurry away. I’m left in utter darkness once more, straining to hear anything beyond these four walls.
If we’ve been boarded, please let it be the coastguard or water police. I could be rescued by morning. I imagine being winched up to a rescue helicopter in the arms of some tanned coastguard, and then being interviewed tearfully on the morning news by a sympathetic female news anchor.
There is, of course, the possibility that whoever attacked one of the crewmembers will do worse things to me than Damir has planned, but hey. I’m trying to stay positive here.
I’ve been staring at the door as I ponder, and I suddenly realize I didn’t hear ponytail guy lock the door when he left. At least, I don’t think I did. Slowly, I feel my way forwards. My fingertips brush the wall, and I move a little to the right until I feel doorframe. With a pounding heart, I fumble for the door handle and turn it. Then I pull.
The door opens.
I swallow a yelp of delight. A sliver of red emergency lighting falls inside across my feet. I strain my ears, barely breathing, but there’s no sound beyond. Should I stay where I am? Or go and see for myself?
There might be help out there. I have to go and see for myself.
I edge out into the corridor, alert to the possibility of danger. Keeping my back against the wall, I tiptoe toward the staircase that leads to the fresh air. Peeking up to the deck above, I see no one. I hear no one, either. It’s like a ghost ship.