Ch19: Stolen June 1st-6th

June 1st

I stayed at the end of the pier until hunger drove me back to the cottage. After barricading myself in I ate. Then later I rocked myself to sleep. Today I don’t know what to do. I have no form of communication. No way to leave the island. I have no hope of being saved.

My ankle is throbbing and I know I should rest it. Despite my desire to return to the pier and watch for boats, I stay in the cottage and lie on the sofa, my injured leg up on the armrest. I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do with twisted ankles, keep them high to help the swelling go down.

All day I try to distract myself with books but my thoughts return constantly to Ian. What is his game, his plan? He can’t keep me here forever, can he?

I write a simple entry in my diary: Day 1 of my captivity.

June 2nd

Day 2 of my captivity. What does he want from me?

It’s a nice day today, clear skies and low wind. It’s warm, bordering hot, for here at least. I hobble over to the window and open it wide, checking the little bay as I do so. Still no boat. My ankle feels a bit better today, but I see no reason to push it. I do some easy stretches and keep my leg up whenever I sit. I need to plan what I’m going to do when Ian comes back. A chill runs through me as a different possibility comes to mind. What if he never comes back? How long can I make the food last?

I can’t let thoughts like that take hold. He will be back, and I’ll be ready. One way or another, I will force him to take me back to Mainland.

June 3rd

Day 3 of my captivity.

I’m able to walk on my injured foot today. I still have to take it easy, and I should probably be resting it, but I am itching to get out of the cottage. I pack a sandwich and go down to the pier. It’s early and I watch as a huge ferry slips slowly by on its way to Lerwick. I remember Ian telling me about a boat you could get to Lerwick, instead of flying. I’m sure he said it was an overnight affair. My heart jumps a little. If this is right, then this boat goes by every day. I turn and examine the hill up behind the cottage. It will be in plain view to anyone looking this way. I can make an SOS sign, dig it into the hill.

I feel flushed with the thought. Already I can picture a boat tentatively approaching the island, loudspeaker words shouted at me: “Are you in need of help?” I’d race to them, throw myself in the frigid North Sea water and splash my way to the boat. No waiting for it to dock, I need to get off asap, before Ian realises what I’ve done.

He’d see the words as well. If I don’t get rescued before he comes for his next visit, he’ll see whatever sign I manage to make. What will his reaction be? Can’t be anything good. I sit at the end of the pier worrying. Could he get violent? What did he want from me? Only time would tell.

June 4th

Day 4 of my captivity.

My foot is much better today. I decided to take a walk over to the loch today. On a whim I take the fishing rod and the box of fishing bits. As usual there is constant activity on the loch. The bugs are out in force, and I spend most of the afternoon swatting then away from my face.

I’ve seen people fish on telly, but that is the extent of my fishing knowledge. In the box of bits there are all kinds of shiny lures. Is that all I need to catch a fish, or is a worm absolutely necessary? My nose wrinkles at the thought of digging up a worm and attaching it to a hook – its body soft between my fingers, the horrid feeling of it getting impaled on the spike – no, I don’t think I can do that. I decide to try with one of the prettiest lures. I attach it to the line and swing the rod over my shoulder. Next, I need to whip it forward and in theory the line should go whizzing out into the loch. I try this, not allowing for any hesitation… nothing happens, the line doesn’t go anywhere.

Checking the barrel I realise there’s a brake for the line. I flick at it and then try again. This time there is that satisfying zip sound as the line flies into the middle of the water. My understanding is fishing is a boring waiting game. I sit on the wooden platform, crossing my legs and wedge the end of the rod between the boards.

I don’t catch anything except many, many bug bites. There are midges on Vanir. Flies that look like tiny little black dots, but their size doesn’t seem to lessen the damage they can do. All my exposed skin is covered. As evening closes in, or at least I think it is, there’s no way to be sure with this permanent summer light, I pack up the fishing gear and make my way back to the cottage.

June 5th

Day 5 of my captivity. Time to make plans.

I have no real clue when Ian will be back so I have to make an educated guess. As I have been left with about the same amount of fuel and food as he did when I foolishly let him bring me here, I can assume he’s leaving me two weeks again. That means probably eight days until he shows up. I need to be ready, have a plan. The way I see it I have a few choices.

1. I can lull him into a false sense of security. Be happy to see him, make him dinner, then when he’s not paying attention steal the key to the boat and escape.
2. Attack him on sight. There’s plenty of driftwood, and I’ve already selected one that’ll do as a weapon. Once he’s unconscious I’ll escape.
3. Hide from him. When he’s searching for me, panicking that I escaped somehow, I’ll jump on the boat and push it out into the sound. Hopefully another boat will see me drifting and rescue me. 

   I chew on the end of the pen, staring at the choices. I can’t think of any other things to do. The first one might work, but Ian doesn’t strike me as stupid, and I’m not sure he’d fall for it. The second one is a toughy. I’ve never hurt another person in my life. How hard do you have to hit someone to knock them out? They make it look easy in films, one big clout to the back of the head and the bad guy goes down like a sack of potatoes. But what will really happen? Worst case scenario, I hit him hard enough to piss him off and he turns on me, and beats me to a pulp. That leaves the last possibility. Hide and try to push the boat away from the pier.

    

    

June 6th

Day 6 of my captivity.

I go and visit the puffins today. They are sweet creatures, and the one I spent time with last week hasn’t forgotten me. It waddles up and lets me stroke its head.

“I’m going to call you Wally.”

Might be the puffin is a girl. I have no way of knowing. Doesn’t matter. He/she is now called Wally. He nuzzles up to me for a few minutes before going back to his burrow. I wonder if there are babies in there. The tidal pool is full of water, and with the sun out the water looks crystal clear and a wonderful pale sapphire colour. I never new such northern waters could be so pretty.