There was a little movement of the camera, as if my father had reached out to touch something. Then
my mother moved forward a little way, or he stepped back. A harsh release of breath from my father.
And then, thirty-five years later, from me.
My mother was holding the hands of two very young children, one on either side. They looked to be
the same age, and were dressed to match, though one wore a blue top, the other yellow. They appeared little more than a year old, perhaps eighteen months, and tottered unsteadily on their feet.
The camera zoomed in on them. One's hair was cut short, the other slightly longer. The faces were identical.
The camera pulled back out. My mother let go of the hand of one of the children. The one with the longer hair and yellow top, a little green satchel. She squatted next to the other child.
'Say goodbye,' she said. The child in blue looked at her dubiously, uncomprehending. 'Say goodbye, Ward.'
The two children looked at one another. Then the one with the short hair, the child that must have been me, glanced back at his mother for reassurance. She took my hand, and lifted it up.
'Say goodbye.'
She made my hand wave, then took me in her arms and stood up. The other child looked up at my mother then, smiled, held his or her arms to be lifted, too. I couldn't tell, not for sure, what sex it might be.
My mother started walking down the street.
She walked at an even pace, not hurrying, but not looking back. The camera stayed on the other child, even as my father walked away after my mother down the hill. They left it standing there.
The child got further and further away, silent at the crest of the rise. It never even cried: at least, not until we were too far away for the sound to be heard.
Then the camera turned a corner and it was gone.
The image cut back to white noise, and this time nothing came afterwards. Within a minute the tape turned itself off, leaving me staring at my reflection in the screen.
I fumbled for the remote, rewound, paused. Stared at the frozen image of a child, left standing at the top of a hill, my hands held up over my mouth.
7
The slot opened. A dim light shone down from above. 'Hello, my dear,' the man said. 'I'm back.'
Sarah could not see his face. From the sound of his voice, it appeared he was sitting on the floor just behind her head.
'Hello,' she said, her voice as steady as she could make it. She wanted to shrink away from him, put just an extra inch of distance between them, but couldn't move even that much. She fought to remain calm, to keep to her plan of sounding as if she didn't care. 'How are you today? Still insane, I guess.'
The man laughed quietly. 'You're not going to make me angry.'
'Who wants you angry?'
'So why do you say these things?'
'My mom and dad are going to be worried sick. I'm scared. I may not be that polite.'
'I understand.'
He was silent then, for a long time. Sarah waited.
Perhaps five minutes later, she saw a hand reaching out over her face. It held a glass of water. Without warning, he slowly tipped it. She got her mouth open in time, and drank as much as she could. The hand disappeared again.
'Is that it?' she said. Her mouth felt strange, clean and wet. The water had tasted the way she had always expected wine to, from the way grown-ups made such a big deal of it and rolled it around in their mouths like it was the best thing they had ever tasted. In fact, in her experience, wine generally tasted like something was wrong with it.
'What else were you expecting?'
'You want me to stay alive, then you're going to have to give me something more than water.'
'Why do you think I want you alive?'
'Because otherwise you would have killed me right off and have me sitting naked someplace where
you could look at me and jack off.'
'That's not a very nice thing to say.'
'I refer you to my earlier comments. I'm not feeling very nice, and you're a sicko, so I don't have to
be.'
'I'm not a sicko, Sarah.'
'No? How would you define yourself? Unusual?'
He laughed again, delightedly. 'Oh certainly.'
'Unusual like Ted fucking Bundy.'
'Ted Bundy was an idiot,' the man said. All humour had vanished from his voice. 'A grandstanding
fool and a fake.' 'Okay,' she said, trying to placate him, though privately she thought he now sounded pompous as well
as insane. 'I'm sorry. I'm not a big fan of his either. You're much better. So do I get some food or what?'
'Later, perhaps.'
'Great. I'll look forward to it. Cut it up small, so I can catch it.'
'Good night, Sarah.'
When she heard him standing, her pretend calm fled. The plan hadn't worked. At all. He knew she
was frightened.