Hostage by Clare Mackintosh
FORTY-NINE
7 A.M. | ADAM
How long has it been?
I tried to keep track of the minutes by counting the seconds, but every crash from above made me lose track, and it feels as though Sophia has been gone for hours. The electrics have tripped, the strip of fluorescent light beneath the door flickering twice and then disappearing, the radio cutting out, midway through more breaking news.
As Flight 79 approaches Sydney, air traffic control operators have made contact with members of the crew. It has not been confirmed whether the aircraft remains under the control of the hijackers. Emergency services are on standby at Sydney airport.
The cellar is pitch-black, the darkness dense and oppressive. I can’t see the smoke, but I can feel it. I can taste it. It catches at the back of my throat, making me cough until I retch, the convulsions jerking my wrists against their metal cuffs. I can no longer feel my hands or feet—a combination of pins and needles and the cold—and my head feels heavy, the way it did after Becca drugged me, although I don’t know if that’s the smoke or just exhaustion.
Sophia must be in town by now. I recite her journey, second-guessing where she’s gotten to. Bookshop, then empty shop, then the ’state agent where they sell houses. I picture her outside the police station, breathless from running, above her, the blue glass lamp that’s been there since Victorian times. The old cells are filled with lockers now, and the station’s only staffed three days a week, but the yellow phone outside goes straight to the control room, and all she has to do is lift the receiver…
Come on, come on!
There’s another crash from upstairs. The staircase? The first floor? I think of Mo next door, still fast asleep, unable to hear anything until it’s too late. The postman comes around eight, but there’s no light coming through the coal chute now the porch light has gone, so it must still be early.
It’s all on Sophia, and there’s so much that could go wrong. Even if she remembers the way, there are roads to cross and well-meaning strangers—let alone predators. What if she can’t reach the phone or it’s out of order? I picture my brave, beautiful daughter, in her Action Man pajamas and her unicorn dressing gown, her slippers wet with snow, and I let my tears fall.
At first, I think I’m imagining the sound of sirens.
They fade in and then out again just as quickly, and I close my eyes and listen so hard, I think I’m hearing it only because I want it so badly. But there it is again: the shrill pitch of a fire engine, and alongside it, the rhythmic peal of a police car. There’s another crash from above me, but the sirens are building and building, and now I can’t hear the roar of the fire anymore, only the sound of help.
Sophia must have told them exactly where I am, because there’s a burst of torchlight through the coal chute, falling like a spotlight just beyond my feet.
“In here!” I try to shout, but my throat won’t comply, acrid smoke making me choke. The coal chute’s too small for an adult to use, and I feel panic rising inside me. What if they can’t get me out? The creaking and cracking I’ve heard, the crashes from above…is the house collapsing? I imagine being buried beneath piles of rubble, no way out as long as I’m chained to the wall.
“Adam? Hang on in there, mate. We’re coming.”
There’s a flicker of light near the top of the cellar steps. I pull my knees up and bury my head as an almighty crash echoes through the house, sending dust and debris across the cellar. I feel a hand on my shoulder, another lifting my head up and slipping something over it. Suddenly the air is cleaner—the breath doesn’t catch in my throat—and my eyes stop stinging. There are two firefighters in the cellar. One of them gives me a thumbs-up, and I nod a response, then she gestures for me to bend forward. The other is already looking at the cuffs, and I bend as low as I can, shuffling away from the wall to give them some space. There’s a spray of sparks and a sudden grinding noise, and I brace myself for a slip, but instead there’s a jolt, and I fall suddenly forward, finally free.
They’ve cut the pipe, not the cuffs, and I stumble as I try to get up, unbalanced with my arms behind my back. My ankles buckle beneath me, stiff from inactivity. Just as I’m wondering how I’m going to walk, let alone run, I’m pulled unceremoniously from both ends and lifted onto a stretcher, straps pulled tight across my chest and legs.
They pull me up the stairs—the wheels at the base of the stretcher bumping up each step—and through the wreckage of the cellar door. I catch a glimpse of the kitchen before we’re into the hall, flames licking at the wallpaper that runs up the stairs, and water—water everywhere—then we’re out. Blue lights flash from every direction as I’m dragged through the snow, a paramedic running by my side. Even as he’s pulling off my smoke hood, I’m shouting, “Sophia—where’s Sophia?” but no one’s listening.
“One, two, three.” There’s a jolt and a sliding sensation as they put me in an ambulance.
“I need to see my daughter.”
“He’s got handcuffs on—look like police ones. Can you get someone over here with a key?”
They talk over me, and a wave of exhaustion engulfs me as I shut my eyes and let them do their job. I feel my head being lifted and an oxygen mask placed over my face, then I’m turned to the side as the paramedic examines my bleeding wrists.
“You wanted a handcuff key?” A woman’s voice filters into my subconscious. There’s a tug at my wrists before the blissful sensation of release, swiftly followed by the intense pain as I try to move them. The woman’s still talking, and I recognize the voice but I can’t place it.
“…absolutely distraught, poor thing. Okay to bring her in?”
“Sophia!” I scramble to sit up just as a mass of dark curls peeps around the open door, accompanied by DI Naomi Butler.
Sophia stares at me, eyes wide and scared, and I lift up the oxygen mask so she can see my face. She’s wearing Butler’s leather biker jacket, the sleeves hanging down to the ground. It’s zipped up, Elephant poking out beneath Sophia’s chin.
“I fell over,” she says. Her bottom lip wobbles.
“You did so well, pumpkin.”
“A teenager picked her up.” Butler lifts Sophia into the ambulance, and she runs to hug me. “Lives next door to the butcher’s—apparently she met Sophia in the park last night? Good kid. She called it in right away.”
“I tore my pajamas.”
“I’ll take you shopping. Buy you some new ones.”
“Mummy too?”
My heart pitches. I open my mouth and flounder, looking at DI Butler, who smiles and hands her phone to Sophia.
“Do you want to show your dad?”
Sophia beams. “Mummy flew the plane.” She taps play on the little screen and presses her head against mine, and together we watch Mina bring Flight 79 safely to land at Sydney.