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She dreams of Scott, arms around waist on the Triumph Bonneville that had belonged to his father. It is the day they rode to London for the first time, just the two of them: sitting by the river, eating chips and planning their future. The calm inside Ronni is beautiful, whole body warm and safe, as he reaches over to embrace, two jeaned pairs of legs dangling over the Embankment. July is brilliant, bright and welcoming, calm within her brief yet glorious. Then the ache begins, somewhere below the breastbone, pain terrible and undiminished. She’s standing, looking at his gravestone, trying to understand why life was so fucking unfair. After that the black is all she craves, until memory of what has happened since wakes her.
Everything transpires for a reason, Scott had said, like that November day they’d met on Platform 4, when he’d shielded her in the rain. She remembers the night he asked what she’d wanted to be after exams were done: the only person trusted enough to share true heart’s desire. ‘I think you’d make a wonderful spy, no-one would know what you really were until it was all too late.’ Ronni supposed at first she had done this for him, because of the belief in her ability. After a while the understanding coalesced it wasn’t death that motivated, instead the notion of what she’d only ever felt comfortable talking about with him in the room, being able to make a difference in the most unexpected of fashions.
Finally consciousness wins its battle and Ronni is aware of being awake, that the world is moving oddly outside the darkness: perhaps it might be an idea if she worked out where this was. Only when opening eyes is there discomfort, and disorientation. The ceiling is high, immaculately plastered, moving strangely as she stares at it.
Ronni has absolutely no idea where here is.
Whatever they drugged her with has left brain odd and unfocussed: sitting up carefully, taking in the large Victorian-build surroundings sparsely furnished and deliberately anonymous. She appears to be restricted to what is a palatial bedroom by her standards and an en suite with the biggest cast iron bath she’s ever seen. Discovering a fridge tucked behind the bathroom door there’s no need to further test the bounds of captivity. Provided with a selection of drinks but no food, Ronni knows she won’t want to eat until whatever was placed in the bottle clears her system completely. That came from a scenario ‘played’ with Eve during what she assumes was the previous day: just how much else might have been prepared for without direct knowledge was yet to be determined.
She needs to drink until the taste of water makes her ill, then stay awake at all costs.
Ronni’s also learnt her first important lesson on this journey: you don’t trust anyone, regardless of who they are. Everyone is potentially the enemy. Next time someone offers you something when thirsty, think twice.
There’s no television to watch, but a very decently appointed bookshelf that runs across one wall. Choices stretch from Chaucer to Dan Brown, with pretty much ever major literary landmark in-between, so she decides on a Hemingway collection and tries to get brain to stop wandering. She’s aware of falling asleep a couple of times, before drinking: sharpness slowly returns on the fourth choice of focus and the same in bottled water, lucidity finally a constant. Looking up it is now dark outside, and Ronni wishes she had something to anchor her to a timeline. As if by magic there is a knock at the door and a small woman with cropped dark hair appears with a tray, leaving it at the foot of the bed before departing without a word.
Dinner is impressive, albeit small: chicken wrapped in bacon and stuffed with asparagus, steaming boiled potatoes with butter and spinach. Ronni doesn’t appreciate how hungry she is until it’s finished and left wanting more, but there is no other movement from the door or indeed anywhere else, and only then does she grasp being in the same clothes from the day before. An exploration into the large wardrobe at the far end of the room finds a selection of decent underwear and the same anonymous blue sweats she’d find when training, and it is time to test out the bath. There is even a bottle of unlabelled yet exotic salts: sinking into perfumed water five minutes later she allows herself to consider how the transition will work.
If this is Saturday, then my family will think I’m finally on the way to Mumbai. The plan is for her to take a small plane to the north of the country: that is when it will happen, some accident will be engineered and her life will be lost, probably in a fire so the body that is returned will be beyond physical recognition. There’s been no preparation for this either, no-one had spoken about what happens afterwards, assumption that is being covered somewhere along the line.
Ronni’s glad there is minimal baggage, that friends she had could be counted on one finger. Lissa was the closest thing she had to a confidante, but never got the faintest inkling of what Veronica was. Their relationship was very occasional spa trips and the odd Friday night and mostly stories about her life in PR and the new guy who she’d seemed increasingly interested in. Mark would show his true colours in the next few days: was he the man who’d nurse her through grief or buckle under the strain?
Fatigue hits Ronni almost as soon as she returns to bed: noting that dinner things have gone, books returned to their places, and there is no doubt that whatever she does from this point onwards will be closely monitored. She’s too tired however to care about clothing and slips naked into bed, last thoughts before unconsciousness about her youngest sister, missed far more than she’d previously considered.
It is too late: regret is a luxury she no longer can afford to indulge.
All she has now is herself.