Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

FOUR

PASSENGER 5J

My name is Sandra Daniels, and when I stepped on Flight 79, I left my old life behind.

I don’t think I’d have even considered getting on the plane if it hadn’t been for my husband. They say victims of domestic abuse try to leave six times on average before they’re finally successful. I only left once. Sometimes I think about what that does to the median, about the women who’ve tried eight times. Ten. Twenty.

I left once and once only, because I knew that if I didn’t do it properly, he’d find me, and if he found me, he’d kill me.

They say that on average, victims are assaulted thirty-five times before they call the police. I wonder what it must be like, to have only been hit thirty-five times. Not that I counted (and I’ve always been stupid at math anyway), but even I know that two or three times a week over four years is a lot more than thirty-five. Although perhaps they only mean the big stuff—the broken bones, the blows to the head that blur the edges with fuzzy, black stars. Not the slaps. The pinches. They probably don’t count. Typical me: overexaggerating again.

It wasn’t Henry’s fault, not completely. I mean, I know it’s wrong to hit someone—of course it’s wrong—but he lost his job, and that does things to a man, doesn’t it? Having to rely on his wife’s income, being the one expected to put a meal on the table, clean the loo, and wait for the dishwasher repairman.

It didn’t seem fair. As Henry said, he was the one who loved his work, while I’d just fallen into mine. A job, not a career. Henry wasgoing places, while I was treading water. He was respected—good at what he did. I was…well, he told me what he’d overheard at the bar, that time he came to our Christmas do.

I stopped going out for work drinks after that. How could I, once I knew what they really thought of me? Thick. Ugly. Incompetent. Not news, I guess, but no one likes to have it confirmed, do they? My colleagues kept up the pretense, though, I’ll give them that: all smiles andHow was your weekend? and Are you sure you won’t join us? I said I was busy, over and over until they stopped asking.

When Henry got a job again, I was grateful when he suggested I hand in my notice. I doubted I’d be missed. It was a new start in many ways, and although it wasn’t something we’d discussed, I felt sure it would mark the end of Henry’s low moods. I would be able to support him so much better, now that I wasn’t working, and in between the housework and the cooking, maybe I’d join the gym or take a painting class. I might even make some friends.

Henry happened to see an advert for online fitness classes. They cost much less than the gym, and I wouldn’t have to drive anywhere, of course, so it made perfect sense. I did start my painting course, though. I was terrible! I mean, really terrible. Our first assignment was a pencil sketch of a vase, and as Henry said, it could have been anything. I didn’t go back. Silly of me to have tried, really. Old dogs and new tricks, as they say.

I did make friends, though. On Facebook, of all places. “Pretend friends,” Henry called them, although in many ways, they were more real than the people around me: the couple next door, for example, or the woman who delivered the Avon catalogues and sometimes stopped for a cuppa. I talked to them, you see, my pretend friends. About cleaning, first of all—we were all part of a Facebook group about household hacks—but you know what it’s like: you get to know one another. Wish one another happy birthday, that sort of thing. Before I knew it, we were messaging privately.

—He shouldn’t treat you like that, you know, they said.

I did know, somewhere inside, but having someone else say it made the thought take root. The next time Henry hit me, I went straight to my computer.

—He did it again.

—You should leave.

—I can’t.

—You can.

They say one in four women will suffer some form of domestic abuse in their lifetime. A quarter of all women.

I look around the plane, counting the passengers. Statistically, at least five women in this business-class cabin alone have been—or will be—beaten by their partners. The thought is both comforting and horrific.

The older lady, perhaps. She has twinkly eyes, but they glistened with tears when she spoke to the air hostess. Is she running away too?

Or the wife of that footballer—we all recognize him—for all that she’s draped across him, immaculate with her glossy hair and berry lips. You never know what happens behind closed doors after all. No one ever knew what happened behind mine.

The cabin crew?

Why not? Domestic abuse doesn’t discriminate. I look for their name badges and try them out for size. Is Carmel a victim? Mina?

Mina has a smile that reaches every part of her face, but the second she ducks back behind the curtain, it drops like a stone. There’s something there, behind her eyes, something troubling her. She doesn’t look like a victim, but then I didn’t think I looked like one either, didn’t think Iwas one, till friends helped me see the world for how it really was.

It’s hard to find the words for how I feel about those “pretend friends” Henry was so derisive about.

How do you thank someone for saving your life?

Because that’s what they’ve done. They opened my eyes to what he was doing and gave me back the confidence I’d lost.

When Flight 79 took off, I relaxed for the first time in fifteen years. Henry won’t follow me to Sydney. He’ll never find me.

I’m finally free.