It was a short walk – no more than half a mile – which she had made many times. The road outside her house led to the village centre, but she turned off it after about a hundred yards and walked along a quiet residential street towards a small park. It was a short cut, of sorts, but the main reason she wanted to go through the park was so she could smoke a cigarette. A stream bordered one edge of the park; it was slow moving and full of litter and nobody – no adults, at least – ever bothered with it. It was the perfect place to hide while you smoked.
It was Kevin who had got her started; the first few times she’d coughed and spluttered and wondered how anyone got addicted to something so disgusting, but after a while she’d grown to quite enjoy it. There was something about the ritual that appealed to her – the flare of the match, the crackle of the paper when it lit, the rush of the nicotine – although what she really enjoyed was the feeling that she was doing something her parents didn’t know about. Something grown-up.
She felt in her bag for the cigarettes and matches and smiled as her fingers closed around them. She took one out and held it in her hand, unlit. She’d share one with Anne later. Anne smoked, too; she didn’t know yet that her younger cousin had taken it up. Maggie was looking forward to telling her.
She was also looking forward to what Anne had to say about Kevin. He was going to be devastated, Maggie already knew that. They’d been together nearly six months, and, a few weeks back he’d said how it seemed like a month or two, max.
Maybe that’s what it’ll be like for us, he said. The years will fly by.
Years? It was then that Maggie realized they were not in the same place when it came to their relationship. For her, it had been a bit of fun that had lasted six months because Kevin made it work. For him, it was something a lot more significant.
Have you ever thought about taking … she said, and hesitated, about like, maybe taking a break?
They were lying on her couch and he tensed.
What do you mean? Do you want to take a break?
No, she said. I was wondering if you want to. If you’ve had enough of me. I don’t want to. Of course not.
He relaxed, a little.
No, he said. I’ve never thought about that. The opposite, in fact. You know I love you, Maggie.
He had started telling her all the time that he loved her. She found it very irritating. She felt she had to reply in kind.
I know, she said. I know you do.
Do you love me?
You don’t need to ask, Maggie said. All of a sudden she didn’t want to say it. Before, it had felt like an imposition; now it felt like a lie.
Do you? he said. Do you love me, Mags?
He’d also started calling her Mags. That was what her dad called her, when he wasn’t calling her Fruitcake. It wasn’t for Kevin.
Maybe for someone else, later, but not for Kevin.
Mags? he said. What’s wrong?
She pushed him away and stood up. Nothing. I’m getting my period. I’m going to get some water.
That had been his reaction to a vague question about taking a break. She dreaded to think what it would be when she told him she wanted to break up. Anne would have some advice.
The realization that a car had pulled up beside her broke her reverie. She started, and dropped her cigarette. She crushed it under her foot, in case it was someone who knew her parents, although if it was, it was probably too late. They’d have seen it in her hand as they stopped next to her.
The car was dark blue and nondescript. A Ford or something. Maybe a Volkswagen. Nothing too fancy, either way. She didn’t recognize it, thankfully. She glanced inside. There was a man behind the wheel, a road atlas in his hands. He was reaching for some glasses and peering at the page. He turned to look at her and smiled. He was about fifty and reminded her of a geography teacher.
No one she knew. She took her foot off the cigarette. No need to worry about that now.
The man looked at the panel by the gearstick and selected a button, his gestures very deliberate, as though new to the technology and needing to think about what he was doing. The passenger-side window rolled down.
‘Sorry,’ he said. He had a quiet, soft voice and a worried expression. She felt a little sorry for him. ‘I’m a bit lost, I’m afraid. Do you know where Ackers Lane is? Is it near here?’
It was on the other side of the park, but to get there by car you had to go through the village.
‘You’ll have to turn around,’ Maggie said. ‘When you get to the main road, turn right, and then right again at the traffic lights. I think it’s second – or maybe third – left after that. Ackers Lane is about half a mile down there.’
‘What’s the name of the road I turn into?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure,’ Maggie replied.
‘And you said it’s second left?’
‘Maybe third.’
‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to bother you. It’s a friend of my mother’s. She’s very frail and she had a fall. I need to get to her as soon as I can.’
‘That’s fine,’ Maggie said. ‘No problem. And good luck.’
The man shook his head. ‘Dash it,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t quite remember what you said. Was it left on the main road?’
‘Right,’ Maggie said. ‘Then right again at the lights.’
‘I thought it was second left? Or third?’
‘That’s after you go right at the lights.’ It was obvious from the man’s blank expression that he wasn’t following her. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s easy. Let’s start again.’
He held up the road atlas. ‘Would you mind showing me on the map?’
‘Of course,’ Maggie said. ‘Pass it over.’
The man unbuckled and twisted in his chair so he could pass the atlas over the passenger seat. She noticed that he held it in his right hand, which was weird, since his left hand was closer to her.
His left hand which, with a sudden, unexpected speed, snaked out and grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards the window.
Then he dropped the atlas, and she saw the syringe in his hand, and felt the prick of the needle in her arm. She just had time to read the front page of the atlas and think it was odd that he had a map of Cornwall when he was in Stockton Heath, and then everything went dark.
Her first thought was that she had a hangover. She recognized the sensation – throbbing temples, dry mouth, disorientation – from the time that she and Chrissie had drunk a bottle of cheap white cider in the park, and then, somehow, made their way to Chrissie’s house and passed out in her bedroom. Maggie had woken when it was still dark out and thought What happened? before the memories of the cider and the park and the two boys that had bought it for them came slowly back.
This was different, though. This time the memories that surfaced were not of cider and boys and the park.
They were of a car, and a man asking for directions and a syringe.
Holy shit.
Her eyes flew open.
She was looking at a low ceiling, covered in some kind of dark carpet tile.
A ceiling she did not recognize.