Pressure Chamber, page 6
“Yes.”
She stands up and goes to the control room. It’s a clean break, and he’s right – the two sides of the fracture are slightly out of line with one another.
“Come back to the chair and put your arm on the surface again.” As she lowers herself into the chair again, he goes over to one of the cupboards and takes out a package of gauze pads. “Here, bite down on this while I straighten the bone. It’s going to hurt.” His voice is neither reassuring nor threatening. Simply devoid of emotion. And she has no other choice. Being at the mercy of this weirdo makes her want to scream. But she follows his instructions. She has to.
She bites down on the gauze pads as hard as she can the moment he takes hold of her arm. He pulls the two pieces of bone further apart and presses them together again. He does so skillfully and quickly, but the pain is intense, and she screams inside her muffled mouth, her entire body breaking into a sweat and her eyes filling with tears.
As he lets go of her arm she removes the package of gauze pads from between her teeth. She must find a way to escape. If she had something with which to stun him, she could reach into his pocket for the key. Not now, almost breathless with pain, but when her arm heals and she’s fit again, he’ll get a can or two to the head and then she’ll make a run for it. Tears of rage mix with tears of pain as she promises herself she’ll make him pay for what he’s done to her.
He shows no interest in her pain and merely says: “Leave your hand in that position,” before returning to the control room. Another X-ray, and another look at the screen.
“Very good.”
She wipes her face with her flannel sleeve. “May I see?”
“Not now. Don’t move your arm; I need to immobilize it first.” He goes back to the cupboard to retrieve the materials he needs to make the cast – a thin layer of inner lining, and strips of plaster that he soaks in water and then winds around her forearm. He works in silence, efficiently and precisely, until her arm is covered from her elbow and down past her wrist, leaving the thumb and four fingers free. She can feel the plaster warming slightly on her arm.
“Let it dry for a few minutes.” He stands up and washes his hands in the basin, before clearing away the remains of the materials he used and throwing them into the trash. Using a disinfecting wipe, he also cleans the surface of the X-ray machine and then throws away the dirty cloth. After washing his hands again, he returns to her to check on the plaster cast, which is hard now.
“Come.”
She stands up and follows him to the control room. On display on the screen is an X-ray image of her arm. The broken bone is perfectly aligned.
“You have a pen and pencil in your room. You can draw on the cast whenever you feel like it.”
15.
It’s happening again.
I’m under the comforter, but something feels different. This isn’t my room.
No. Not again.
Not that again.
Please, not that.
I try with all my might to fight the desire to peek out from under the comforter. If I stay out of sight, maybe it won’t happen. But I can’t help myself. An urge too powerful to suppress forces me to glance out at the three windows. They are shrouded this time in a thick fog through which I can’t see anything at all.
And then his face appears at the middle window, between the palms of his hands that he plants forcefully against the glass. A cold shudder runs down the back of my neck.
He moves away from the window; I can hear him outside, screaming and cursing, and the powerful kicks against the front door begin. I decide that I’m not going to allow him in this time. I jump out of the bed and push it as hard as I can towards the door to barricade myself in. The bed is heavy, but I manage to move it little by little until the legs at the front get stuck against one of the floorboards. I run around to the other side of the bed and try to lift it over the obstacle, but I can’t. I try with all my strength but to no avail. I look down at my wrists to see strained tendons, and my Pandora bracelet, and its beads engraved with the name Daphne Dagan in curly letters glowing like drops under a blue light. The bracelet reminds me of something but I can’t remember what.
I’m sweating. I give up on the bed and run to the other room to see if I can find something in the closet with which to stop him. I hear the door of the house give in to his kicking and a cry of: “You’re done for!”
I open the door of the closet. It’s empty and scribbled on the wooden side panel on the inside are the words You’re probably going to die tonight in dried brownish blood. I turn around and he’s standing in front of me, breathing heavily.
“So you’re trying to block the door?” He looks back through the doorway at the bed. “Do you think that’ll do you any good?” He lets out a hollow laugh, exposing his yellow teeth. “Let’s play a little.” He kicks me in the stomach with his heavy shoe and I double up on the floor. He lifts me up like a rag doll, walks into the other room and throws me onto the bed.
“You’ll never get rid of me. You’re my favorite toy.” He’s on top of me again. His breath reeks of decay. He’s choking me.
The house around me spins as the oxygen in my lungs runs out.
She wakes up from the dream, heart pounding, soaked in sweat. She looks around, taking in her surroundings; the book she’d been reading is lying on the floor next to the bed, her sheets are crumpled. The apartment’s quiet; soft streaks of sunlight stream in through partially open shutters.
She touches the screen of her phone to see the time – 05:29. She gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen and fills the kettle. Her breathing is less rapid. She returns to her room, taking care not to make any noise and wake Anna, and picks the book up off the floor. She needs to remember to renew the loan from the Mount Scopus library.
She makes herself a cup of coffee and sits down at the kitchen table. She doesn’t feel like going back to her room, which always feels like an intimidating place in the wake of a nightmare, as if the bed and walls and ceiling are somehow responsible for her dreams.
She lights a cigarette, opens the book and leafs through until she finds the page she was on when she fell asleep. If she wants to dream about something specific, she needs to add it to the sentences she writes in her dream journal before going to bed and play with the idea in her head. Tonight, I’m going to dream that I’m flying, for example. And to repeat it and memorize it and cram it into her head in the minutes before falling asleep, and her brain will do the rest. It doesn’t happen right away. She understands she’ll need to train herself. In the world of dreams, everything works slowly.
And there’s also the matter of sleep paralysis. She needs to be wary of that.
On the kitchen table next to her book is the police notice she showed Anna the night before.
MISSING
The Israel Police is asking for the public’s assistance in its search for Lee Ben-Ami, 23, from Givatayim, who was last seen at her residence – 16 HaLilach Street, Apt. 5 – on Sunday, August 16, 2016, before disappearing without a trace.
Description
Build: Slender
Hair: Light brown, short and straight
Eyes: Honey brown
Height: 5’6”
Clothing: Blue-and-red sweatsuit, red running shoes Distinguishing Features: None
Anyone with information that could be of assistance in locating her is kindly requested to call the Dan District Police Headquarters at 03-6104444, or the Israel Police 100 hotline.
16.
She’s more comfortable sleeping on her left side. The arm with the cast doesn’t bother her as much that way during the night. And as for the pencil he left in her room, she uses that for writing in a spiral notebook she found in one of the cupboards, but mostly for scratching under the cast, which has started to irritate her skin.
It’s been a week since she woke up here. And after setting her arm and returning her to the room in which she was imprisoned, he’s disappeared. He left and hasn’t returned. She has already managed to map and record the contents of all the cupboards in the notebook. The food will last her about a month; and as long as there is water flowing from the tap, she can drink. She washes the empty cans of food and fills them with water, which she changes every day, so that she’ll have something to drink if the water supply is cut off.
She tries to listen for sounds of activity outside the room, but she can’t hear a thing. The only noises are hers, the hum of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, or the rush of the water she flushes down the toilet.
She has no way of knowing where she is. If she’s ten miles from the location where he snatched her, or two hundred. Maybe she’s in a building in the Negev somewhere, or a basement on the Golan Heights. She’s tried digging into one of the walls with the sharp edge of the folded lid of one of the cans of food but only managed to scratch away a thin layer of plaster before running into impenetrable concrete.
She knows there are at least three rooms in the structure. The room in which she’s being held, the adjacent room with the strange photographs, and the large room with the medical equipment. The air-conditioning system remains on all the time but makes no sound, and she can see the air vents in the ceiling.
The boredom is a killer. She’s used to being on the go around the clock: going to school and her job at the hospital, seeing friends, nights out when she doesn’t have a shift to work, Shai. What’s he doing? He must have spoken to the police by now. He must be looking for her. Her mom and dad must be going crazy. Her friends too. She misses them all so much. The pain is real and persistent like a hole drilled through her heart. She recalls news stories about young women or girls abducted and then rescued after years of imprisonment. She won’t be one of them. No. No way. Either she’ll end up dead, or her abductor will be killed during her escape attempt – and that’s not far off. She’s not living for years on end in a closed room. Not her.
But she needs to bide her time. To recover. The cast will come off in a month’s time. She’ll keep a lid on her at all times – the metal lid she removed from a can and folded. She sharpened it on the concrete wall inside the kitchen cupboard under the sink so that he wouldn’t see the marks. The lid has turned into a small knife. She’ll wait for her opportunity. She won’t miss.
She begins exercising. One set of stomach crunches. Back to her feet. A set of squats. Jumping on the spot. And then all over again. And once more. And again. Anything that doesn’t require the use of both arms. Morning and evening. She perseveres, sweating, straining, feeling all of her muscles at work. She starts to feel better.
There’s no way she’s staying here.
After exercising, she wraps a trash bag around the cast and showers under a stream of cold water in one of the cubicles. The clothes she removes go into a large drawer labeled Laundry in red letters. And from the closet she retrieves a fresh set of neatly packed clothing, more and more of the same items – thin white sweatpants, a short-sleeved white shirt that’s a little big for her, underwear, socks. All white.
She suddenly hears a door open and close in the adjacent room, followed by footsteps. She slides the improvised knife into the back of her sweatpants, the elastic waistband holding the weapon in place. In keeping with her practice runs, it’s the best place for it – hidden and readily accessible.
She hears the key slip into the lock on the other side of the door and turn, releasing the pin tumbler mechanism with a click, and the door swings open to reveal him standing in front of a stainless-steel trolley, the kind you’d find in a hospital. She’s pushed one around among patients at Ichilov Hospital countless times – the “Silver Platter” as they jokingly dubbed it. But his trolley isn’t laden with medical equipment or medication, but tools, cardboard boxes and a set of steel handcuffs.
“Shackle your wrist to the frame of the bed.”
He throws the handcuffs onto the bed. Lee doesn’t budge.
“Shackle your wrist to the frame of the bed.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to be working here in the room and will have to turn my back on you for part of the time. If you decide it would be a good opportunity to smash me on the head with something and flee, the handcuffs will prevent you from doing so.”
He goes quiet and looks at her, scratching his chin.
“Actually, even if you were able to stun me and try to escape, you wouldn’t make it out of here on your own. There are several rooms beyond this one and they’re all locked. But let’s leave things on the safe side.”
She sits down and cuffs the wrist of her good arm to the frame of the bed, holding back tears of frustration, keeping an eye on him as he begins drilling into one of the walls. To the black metal fixture that he attaches to the wall, he mounts a television screen, which he then hooks up to an electronic device. Leading out from the device is a cable that’s connected to the end of a second one, in a wall outlet. He works silently and efficiently.
He stands in front of her when it’s done. “It’s important for you to maintain your mental fortitude. I’ve set up a television feed for you. Not exactly cable or satellite TV, I can’t risk you making contact with the outside world. This one facilitates reception only. You have access to programs from the two public channels and the music channel, and you can also get the Russian-language channel. I suggest you use the time to learn a new language. It could offer a challenge.”
A challenge. Plunging the knife into his aorta would be a far more exciting challenge, she thinks. She’ll get to do it at some point.
“Thanks,” she responds, forcing herself to express appreciation to him. It’s imperative he believes she isn’t dangerous.
He rolls up the drill cable and returns the tools to the stainless-steel trolley, arranging them neatly again, and then he takes out a small hand-held vacuum cleaner to clear away the dust particles that fell to the floor as he drilled.
“How long do you plan to hold me here?”
“Until you’ve completed your task. Your mission.”
“And what is my mission?”
“I’ll brief you soon.”
He produces a large black garbage bag and fills it with the laundry from the drawer. After placing it on the trolley, he leans over Lee. She draws back, as far as the handcuffs allow. He straightens up and shows her the key in his hand then leans over again and releases her.
He returns the handcuffs to the trolley and the key to his pocket and heads for the door, turning to her before he leaves the room.
“You may hear some drilling and renovation noises soon. My apologies in advance. You won’t be bored for much longer. After we take off the cast and your arm recovers its strength, I’ll arrange some friends for you.”
He wheels the trolley out and the door closes behind him with a metallic click.
PART 2
THE FOUR
NOVEMBER 2016
17.
One hand gripping the steering wheel, he presses hard against his temples with the fingers of the other until the level of pain evens out. Great. He has the strength to get it done. The strength to take action. To take care of every tiny detail. To get in and to get out. To refrain from mistakes. He’s played it over in his mind at least a hundred times already. He knows the place inside out.
Six-thirty in the morning. He’s making his way along Route 4 towards Beilinson Hospital in a white Hyundai Tucson with tinted windows. He’d done a thorough check of the model, the keys and the type of alarm that had to be neutralized before deliberately choosing one owned by a family that lived in an area of private homes relatively far apart from one another. He then waited for them to go on holiday so as to avoid a stolen-car report. By the time they return, the car will be back in its rightful place.
But not in the same condition and with a slightly different smell.
Two hours, no more – that’s how long he has to complete everything before they realize what’s happened. Lying on the front passenger seat are two bags with everything he needs. A large bag and a small bag. Among various other items, the large one contains four sets of license plates – the one he’s just removed from the Hyundai and replaced with another set, and three more sets to use later.
He turns on the radio and tunes in to the news, then opens Waze on his phone. Although he’s practiced the trip countless times, he doesn’t want to leave anything to chance; and if, God forbid, he’s going to run into traffic or a blocked road along the way, he needs to know. Every now and then, the police radio scanner he purchased on eBay and placed on the dashboard emits a laconic report about an accident on one road or another. No irregular incidents to speak of. And it’s raining. He raises his eyes and gazes at the heavy gray clouds above. Excellent. An ideal day. He won’t deviate from his plan in the slightest and won’t have to improvise. Unlike the bunch of clowns who work with him, who do everything in a half-assed way, without seeing things through to the end. He’ll exploit their weaknesses.
Everything’s in place. He’s been preparing for this day for years, and they haven’t. He has just the one attempt. After he does what he’s about to do today, the procedures will be tightened. He knows that. If they had even an iota of intelligence in their empty heads, he wouldn’t be able to implement his plan. But they don’t have the ability to think one step ahead, a collection of fools who grasp something only after it’s happened. He’ll give them something to grasp. Soon. He smiles as he pictures everyone’s reactions. The shock.
He drives into the hospital’s outdoor parking lot and leaves the car, taking the small bag only. Dressed in a thick coat and carrying an open black umbrella, he makes his way towards the external entrance to the Maternity Ward, stopping at the door to shake the rain off the umbrella and close it before going inside. He then walks down the hallway straight to the men’s bathroom, where he enters the largest stall, designed for the handicapped, and locks the door behind him.
