Poppy Day (28 page)

Poppy dashed away the tears with the sleeve of her
sweatshirt
, she wanted to be composed. ‘I want to say thank you to you, sir. Thank you so much. This means everything to me, to us. He’s my whole world and he has always looked after me. You have no idea what this means. None at all. I am so grateful to you. Thank you. You have made all my dreams and wishes come true.’

He spoke slowly, ‘I accept your thanks. You may both go in the morning.’

‘In the morning? OK, thank you. Thank you so much.’

It didn’t strike Poppy as a particularly odd request; she assumed it was a transport issue. She didn’t care; if they were together she could happily spend the night anywhere. My Mart, my love, I’m coming.

‘There is one condition. Tonight you spend the night with me and in the morning I return you to your husband and you are both free to go.’

‘Spend the night with you?’ Poppy smiled as she spoke, the reality of what he was asking hadn’t sunk in. It wouldn’t sink in; it was too awful to comprehend.

‘Yes. You will spend the night with me as my whore and in the morning you will both be free to go. If you refuse, I will rape you and then I will kill you. Then I shall give the order for your husband to be killed. We will show him your body before we cut off his head.’ He was smiling now.

What Poppy was hearing was so offensive to her senses, so shocking to her ears that her brain refused to accept it. She had to replay his words to try and get them to make sense. He was speaking English, perfect English, but it was as if it were a foreign tongue that she couldn’t grasp. She studied his face, hoping for some sign of reprieve, a hint of flexibility; there was none. He was made of stone; he was indeed the monster she had thought he was.

She nodded. Fear rendered her unable to speak, or move.

‘Good.’ He turned away, preoccupied with some paperwork on his desk.

That was his final comment, ‘Good’, this one small,
mediocre
word that sent Poppy’s world spiralling out of control.

She was taken up to a bedroom, told to wash and wait for Zelgai. She spent the next few hours in the guise of an
automaton
. Poppy knew that if she thought too much about what was about to happen, she would go mad; not in a metaphorical sense, but she felt quite literally that she could lose her mind.

She bathed and put on the white nightdress that she had been issued with. The room was sparsely furnished, the bed being the most dominant piece. It was lavishly dressed with a grey silk counterpane and white linen cushions piled high. Poppy tried to lie down, but the pillows smelt greasy, with the tang of male sweat and unwashed hair. It was disgusting. She sat on the
mattress
with her knees up under her chin and she waited. Poppy didn’t cry or make a noise, she didn’t do anything.

She thought about Martin, whom she had been told was under the same roof. She thought about her nan. She even thought about her crappy mum. She tried to fill her mind with anything other than what was about to happen. She pictured her body, naked beneath the white linen, deciding to think herself away, mentally escape…

Poppy was thirteen when she got her first period; it wasn’t the Victorian shock it was for her nan’s generation. She didn’t sit crying in the bathroom with the door locked because she thought she was going to die. She knew exactly what was going on thanks to a small cardboard-bound book handed out by the school nurse. Although, frankly, the cartoon shapes with
oversized
coloured-in organs in
This is Your Body
looked nothing like anything on or near her body!

When Poppy first saw the diagrams at the age of eight, she took a few minutes to look for the large black arrow pointing downwards from her belly button after reading, ‘below is a picture of you.’ She then spent the evening in a state of high
agitation
, wondering how to broach the subject with her mum that she was in fact one, if not two, large arrows short of being normal.

Poppy confided in her nan, not so much for guidance, or because she needed the obvious supplies, but rather she wanted to share the news with someone, to mark the rite of passage. Well, she did and she didn’t. It felt embarrassing and important all at the same time.

Poppy slithered up to her chair. The curtains were drawn, telly on. ‘Nan? I’ve… err…’

‘You’ve… err… what?’ Dorothea looked away from the TV as she stubbed the little rolled-up cigarette into the square pewter ashtray that was permanently on the arm of the chair. It defied science, often teetered, but never actually fell. It was also never washed, the best it could hope for was a quick bang against the inside of the kitchen bin to release the ash, sticky filters, bits of paper and flecks of tobacco that were stuck to its sides with spit. ‘For Gawd’s sake, Poppy Day, whasamatterwivyou?’

‘I think I’ve started,’ she mumbled the phrase that she’d heard the girls on the estate use, hoping this would be enough to convey her latest state to her nan. No such luck. Poppy tinged puce to her very tips and sucked her cheeks into her back teeth to stem the tears.

‘You think you’ve started what?’

‘You know…’

‘No, love, I don’t bloody know!’ Dorothea moved her head away from Poppy’s body. The chef on the TV began to reclaim her attention; pulling her into the pixelated vortex in the corner.

Poppy had to act quickly or lose her to the vacuous rubbish being transmitted. ‘My period, I think I’ve started my period.’ Poppy cringed as she tested out the alien word, a grown-up word heavy with connotation and expectancy.

Dorothea sprayed laughter over her granddaughter. ‘Jesus, Poppy Day! By the look on your mush, I thought something terrible had happened!’

‘It is terrible!’ Poppy wailed, finally unable to curb the hot tears. She wasn’t entirely sure why it was so terrible or why she was crying, but she struggled to find anything positive about it.

‘Oh Poppy Day! What you crying for? If you think that’s bad, girl, wait till you have to give birth. It’s like pushing a watermelon through a straw, now that
is
terrible. Or when you get your heart broken. Or both. These will cause you real pain. You don’t know you’re born, love. It’s just life, it’s just normal!’

Well great. That made it a whole lot better, knowing that there was far, far worse to come. Poppy still carried the mental image of a watermelon going through a straw; it made her clench every muscle she had. It was easy for her nan to say the words, but it didn’t feel just like life, or just like normal; in fact, it made everything feel different and not good different either.

‘Don’t tell Mum, don’t tell anyone.’ It was Poppy’s parting shot and her undoing.

‘Why “Don’t tell Mum”?’

‘Just because!’

‘Just because!’ Dorothea mimicked Poppy’s voice.

‘I mean it, Nan.’

Dorothea squeezed her granddaughter’s hand. ‘What do you think I’m going to do, Poppy Day? Put an advert in the
Walthamstow Gazette
?’

It made the little girl laugh; it made her smile, big. Big event over. Or so she thought. Poppy came home from school five days later to find her nan sitting at the little table under the window, doodling her finger on the floral oilcloth and
chuckling
over a cup of tea.

‘What you laughing at?’ Poppy waited for her reply, knowing that it could be a million things; nearly all of them not
considered
funny by anyone else.

‘You know the other day when you said not to tell people about you know what?’

Poppy reddened. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, I got a bit confused. Did you say
do
put an advert in the
Walthamstow
Gazette
or don’t?’

Poppy’s mind spun. ‘You didn’t!’ Dorothea didn’t answer immediately. ‘Nan! Nan please tell me you didn’t!’

Producing the folded paper from under the table, she held it out of her granddaughter’s reach.

‘Oh no, Nan! Please no. Oh my God!’ Poppy ran around the table, grabbing at her nan’s arm until she managed to hold it fast and pulled the paper from her grip. A two-inch square had been red-ringed with a felt-tip pen. Her heart beat too fast. Her eyes, sticky with tears, squinted, concentrating on the wording:

She smiled, knowing that she loved her nan right back and that she always would.

Poppy swallowed, whispering a missive to Dorothea, ‘Nanny, my nanny, please help me, please…’ It was similar to grieving, her heart felt like it would break, this. This was mixed with the most terrible fear. Her limbs shook and spasmed
involuntarily
. She couldn’t breathe properly. It was during that period of waiting that Poppy thought that death might be
preferable
; she was petrified. Had it been only her death, she might have considered it, but it wasn’t, and she couldn’t begin to imagine being responsible for the execution of her beloved husband, her Mart, who was under the same roof as her, just as she had wished, as she had dreamt of.

As she sat waiting, her blood turned to ice in her veins, her heart slowed to an almost near-death state and she started to count, one… two… three… Poppy counted the seconds that she had remaining. She counted the last seconds of her old life before it was changed forever. She spent the last few moments of being her, the proper her, counting.

Zelgai entered the room some hours later and initially ignored her. He turned the main light off. The only remaining glow was that which came from under the door and a lamp that shone brightly through the window. The room was bathed with honey-coloured radiance. She watched him move around the room, realising that she had lost a bit of her fear of him. She knew the worst that there could be, or thought she did; there was nothing else for him to threaten her with.

‘How do I know that I can trust you? How do I even know that Mart is here?’

He didn’t respond.

She spoke quickly, nerves fuelling her speed. ‘I said, how do I know that you will keep your word, because you might not? You might… do what you plan to do, do what we have agreed…’ Poppy couldn’t say the words ‘sleep with’ or ‘have sex with’; it would have made it real and, right up until the moment where she couldn’t deny it any more, it wasn’t real. It was nothing more than a horrible thought. ‘And then you might kill me, you might kill us both, and so I want you to tell me: how do I know that I can trust you?’

He stroked his neat beard before his mouth twisted open into a smile of sorts. She noticed for the first time that the gap between his front teeth was wide, almost wide enough for a small spare tooth. He pushed the tip of his tongue through the gap until it rested on his top lip; his mouth was wet and open. It made her shudder with revulsion. He scratched at his chin a few more times, as though it was a neglected pet. Then he stopped and popped his tongue back into his mouth. ‘It is simple, Poppy, you cannot.’

‘What does that mean?’ Poppy knew what it meant but needed to hear the clarification.

He rubbed his palms together and walked towards the bed. His fingernails were beautiful and longer than most women’s that she knew. He leant back, tilting his head to one side as he breathed out deeply. ‘I think you heard me, Poppy. It’s simple really, you cannot trust me, but you are not stupid, are you? You have told me that already. So I’m sure that you do not trust me; thus proving you are smart, because only the stupid are dumb enough to trust me and most of them are now deceased.’

Poppy understood loud and clear. For the first time in her life she felt far from smart, how clever had she been to get into this nightmare situation? She prayed then. She prayed to God and to Martin, asking one of them, or both of them, to help her, ‘Please help me, please, please help me.’ Neither of them appeared to be listening at that particular moment.

‘Are you scared of me?’

Poppy nodded, ‘Yes.’

This made him smile. ‘That is a good thing.’

Poppy shivered as he walked closer to the bed. She tried to make herself very small. He sat on the edge of the mattress which sagged under his weight, raising his dress slightly to sit down. Poppy could see that he had cotton pyjama-type bottoms on underneath. He leant towards her and as he spoke, she could smell the mint of mouthwash and toothpaste on his breath. It was the way Martin smelt when he got into bed. Her mouth filled with water, she swallowed it quickly. This was no time to be sick.

‘I like your name, Poppy. Poppies are my business.’

She bit her lip to prevent the words ‘and raping, kidnap and killing’ from tumbling out.

‘It suits you much better than Nina Folkstok,’ he laughed.

‘How did you know?’ Poppy didn’t know where she found the courage to talk to him. She was shaking with fright.

‘My organisation is in touch with Ms Folkstok and that was why she was travelling out here. She is known to us and you are clearly not she.’ The way he emphasised the word ‘clearly’ told Poppy that Nina was superior, better and smarter.

She stared at him. How could she have known? How could Miles have known? They couldn’t, they didn’t. It was that luck thing again, only this time it was a bad luck thing.

Without warning, he put his hand out, gently pushing the cotton sleeve up over her wrist. He touched his fingertips against her inner arm, softly he stroked the pale area where the tiny purple rivers of blood forked and meandered under her skin. It was as if he had cut her. She physically jumped
backwards
, gasping loudly. He withdrew his hand, and she settled slightly. Then he slowly reached forward, putting both of his hands around the tops of her arms.

Poppy could feel his hands on her, and his beard centimetres from her face. She knew that it would possibly be the last chance that she had to speak; she searched for the words and even though they came out jumbled and confused, she was glad that she spoke, glad that she tried. ‘Is my Mart close by? Is… Is he near me now? I have only ever… only ever Mart, no other man, ever. I… I… can’t… I… My husband… He’s my husband…’