Chapter 5

Dilan had learned to disassociate from an early age. Her earliest memories had been with her parents as they were living in a tent in a refugee camp in the Syrian/Turkish border. Her mother told her of their house in Kobani which seemed like heaven compared to this. Her father had a first wife, and three sons, whom she only met briefly in the camp. One son was already in the army. She was the only child of his second marriage. Her father would tell her that they would soon be able to return to Kobani.

They could have gone to Germany at first but her father did not want to abandon his first family and his son who was in the government army. He also had a blacksmith business in town with expensive tools hidden away, and did not want to give it up. The town of Kobani had already been severely damaged in battles between ISIS and Kurdish forces. But it was now over a year later. Surely it should be safe?

In the late summer of 2016, her father had gone on his own to visit Kobani. She and her mother never saw him again. He stopped answering phone calls, and his phone went dead. Days went by with no news. Eventually, her mother called her half brothers, who told her that they had news that he had been found dead in his shop. Apparently, he had disturbed and argued with outsiders who had taken over this shop and were using his equipment. Neighbours had contacted the sons but did not have the details of Dilan or her mother.

Her mother, Yasmin was Syrian Arabic, not Kurdish, but had married a Kurdish man and taken his name of Barzini. She had been ostracised by her family as a result. She had no one therefore but Dilan.

The borders with Europe were closed, and word was that they should stay in the camp. They lived with Kurdish families who were initially kind, but soon things took a turn to the worse. Dilan’s mother was still young and attractive; she was still in her late twenties. She started getting proposals for marriage and the other wives grew jealous of her, especially as an Arab and not a Kurd.

Yasmin was also alarmed at the attention young Dilan was getting. Only the men seemed to be able to leave to go into Turkey to try and get to Europe, the women forced to stay behind. For safety, she decided to start at relationship with Erdil, a Turkish security guard. Dilan liked Erdil at first, and he would take them out of the camp on little trips. Eventually, he promised them he would take them to Istanbul to live with his parents. Dilan’s mother was reluctant; she did not love this man and was not interested in living in a strange city. So Erdil left her and shortly afterwards quit his job at the camp and they never saw him again.

Dilan remembered the next man her mother got together with. A married father of five, he was very friendly to her, and made her mother laugh. Word quickly got around the camp. Of course they blamed her, not the man. One night, a group of women had broken into their tent, and beat Yasmin to a pulp in front of Dilan. One of the women spat in Dilan’s face and called her a daughter of a whore.

From that point on, as Dilan walked around the camp, she heard the laughter from the other children and women as they teased her : “fahiseya”, “ereb”. Her friends would one moment laugh and play with her, then bring out those hurtful words; she was the daughter of a whore, an Arab, an outsider. She tuned out of these by inventing scenarios in her head, and pretending to hear loud music in her ears, anything to get away from her surroundings. It was a technique that would, unfortunately, be needed for her to blot out unpleasant realities again and again throughout her life.

Now in the present, she stared up at the ceiling. There was no escape, she was able to move around, but eventually she relaxed down on her back, her head on the head rest. Nothing to do but wait ... she only prayed Mr Pembroke would not hurt her and that he only wanted sex with her. The women and the children in the camp had really wanted to hurt her, they really hated her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine something, anything, different to this.

As Pembroke walked out of the basement, he was able to glance at the screens outside the padded door and could see a color version of his captive lying on the table. He went straight upstairs with the discarded clothes and closed all the doors, though did not lower the horizontal door down. This took quite a bit of effort to open up and close, and each time would necessitate rearranging the contents of the broom cupboard, so he decided to leave it unless he was expecting visitors. Then he realized – this was the crucial early stage; what if the police knocked and inspected the broom cupboard and grew curious about the stairs? He pulled the door down from its upright position until it snapped into place as a ‘floor’ of the cupboard, then moved the contents of a broom and some old wires into it. He would need some permanent things to keep handy to be moved into the cupboard on top of the door, including a carpet, and made a note to do this. Next, he went upstairs to his study and turned on the computers.

He logged in to his secret account and saw the camera views of the outside of his house. He then clicked a few more buttons and entered a passkey to get to his ‘other cameras.’ He was treated to a huge display on his monitor of Dilan lying on the table; her fingers were twinkling away as if listening to music and her fingers and toes wriggled.

He instantly minimised the screen and looked around. No one could see the screen; he had made sure there was no view through the window where anyone could see. He had spent many an hour masturbating to legal and illegal porn and even within his house this was his “safe space”.

He turned on the microphones and listened. There was very little sound, but then Dilan was not making much noise. He turned it up and thought he could hear her breathing. He decided against trying the speakers to talk to Dilan; he would do this later. He turned everything off before going downstairs.

He wondered what to do first: drive into town and throw out the clothes (both his own from last night and the torn shreds of Dilan’s) or clean the car. If he drove off, then at least the police would not be able to see him if they decided to pay a visit. Cleaning the car on Christmas day morning might seem strange. He opened the car and was shocked at the state of it—mud everywhere, even on the windows; the boot was the same. He could see strands of her hair everywhere. He looked around; no one could see directly into his yard, but they might hear the humming of a vacuum.

He also thought of this camera now holding extremely incriminating evidence. He wondered whether he should hide it. It seemed ridiculous, he lived alone in a big house, and he could not think of anywhere to hide his camera, so he placed it in its normal drawers. It would seem stranger if police saw it lodged somewhere as if hidden.

A witness reported, on Christmas morning, a middle-aged bachelor who lived alone, hovering and cleaning his car.” He heard this in his head as an inevitable first clue towards him as a suspect. He decided to forgo the vacuum for now but began cleaning the car boot with wipes to get rid of the mud, picking up as many hairs as he could find and stuffing them into another plastic bag. Her saliva and DNA were likely everywhere. He could return this to the rental company’s office in a few days and then forget about it as long as he had it clean. He turned to the front seat, scrubbed the mud out, and checked the compartments and under the seat for any remnants of her things and his “kit”. Every now and then, he looked up to check if anyone had come into his yard or was watching.

He was satisfied for now; he would vacuum it later. For the time being, he decided to drive into town to discard all the rubbish. He quickly made himself a coffee and decided against any type of disguise. From now on, he would be plain Mr. Pembroke. He went upstairs and checked on Dilan on the screens. She was now up on her haunches, her hands still tied down, and she was likely stretching herself.

He went downstairs again, needing to lift the door again just to access the stairwell. This was a good workout, he thought. He went through the doors and was able to use the codes to get in; he did not need the key but could program it so that both key and code were needed. He contemplated the horror of being trapped with Dilan if he happened to lose the key inside the basement. He would have to think long and hard about using a key, he thought.

“Hello, my dear. Are you OK?”

“Yes,” she responded automatically.

“Now, we skipped all of this morning, but remember you have to call me ‘sir,’ always.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” He stroked her face and ran his fingers over the slight bump on her forehead, her cuts and grazes, and onto a dark patch on her rib cage.

“Ahhh,” her body seized up, and she clenched her teeth.

“Ah, I am sorry. I did not want to be rough with you, but how else could I have you here.” He smiled at her. She did not respond.

“You are so beautiful” his hands started making long sweeping movements over her body. She did not flinch. He pinched her nipples and the insides of her thighs, the only places where she had enough flesh to pinch on her front side. Suddenly relishing his power over her, he pulled back her hair, and started to inspect her ears. No prostitute would ever have let him inspect her ears as if she were a doll, now Pembroke could do whatever he wanted no matter how weird. He traced the folds as they disappeared into her brain, and tugged gently at her earlobes. He reached over to the other one, and gently poked his finger so that his nail went into the crevice.

“No, it hurts please don’t” she exclaimed and pulled her head away.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to ... inspect you,” he said. He had not intended to go any further but did not want to be seen surrendering to her command. So, he traced his fingertip a little more around the tender flesh of her inner ear. Next, he inspected her nose; it was relatively clean, indicating that she had not been crying since being untied earlier this morning. He gently massaged the tip of her nose and explored each nostril with his finger, then traced a fingertip from her nose tip to the space between her eyes. He examined her eyebrows, looking for any signs of plucking, but could find none. Her eyebrows were fine, dark, and perfectly arched. Her eyes blinked rapidly, darting to the side. He looked deep into her pupils, seeing the mixture of green and brown.

“I cannot wait to enjoy you more; we have all the time in the world together.”

He decided against moving her. He was happy to leave her to her trancelike state and her own thoughts and went back upstairs. He thought he should really go somewhere today and googled for church services. It would be strange to be inside.

“He drove his normal car into town and dropped off the rubbish in a bin on a quiet road, where he could be confident there were no surveillance cameras. He had an hour to kill before service, so he drove around the town centre. On a whim, he walked over to the bin where he had thrown away Dilan’s devices last night. He looked down and could see the bag protruding from the rubbish.

The town centre was quiet, he thought. Suddenly, he wondered about her phones. He could leave them there, and they would eventually die and be carted away. Perhaps he could book a train to London, stick the bag there, and hop off. Should he check if the bag was still there? It suddenly occurred to him that if the phone had been tracked, the police might have already traced it and decided to keep watch in case anyone came for it. Suddenly, he looked around nervously. His fingerprints or DNA might be in the bag. Hell ... damn these electronic devices. He strolled around, thinking he was making himself look suspicious.

Suddenly, he remembered what Dilan had told him last night about her belongings in room 203 ... he had completely forgotten it. The key card was back in the basement. He moaned in anguish that he was only a hundred meters from the hotel. His stomach rumbled with stress.

Did the suitcase exist? Did he need to get it? He got back in his car and drove off. He thought about skipping the church service; his nerves might betray him. Nevertheless, he decided to go. He Googled whether a phone could be tracked when the battery dies. They could be tracked to their last known location, possibly to within a few meters. So, if they track the last location to a bin, it may still have the phone in it. Therefore, one would check CCTV footage for whoever had put things in the bin. He thought that the authorities might believe it had been in the nearby hotel. What an idiotic decision. He started imagining that they could use this information years, even months from now.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the window. It was Ms. Heath, an elderly lady. ‘Oh hello Edward, Merry Christmas.’ ‘Merry Christmas!’ called back Pembroke. He got out and hugged Ms. Heath; she had been his old teacher when he was a boy. They reminisced, and he escorted her inside. The service went on for over an hour. Pembroke’s mind was all over the place. Should he leave the bag in the bin? Where could he take it? What was he going to do about the suitcase in the hotel? He started sweating.

He was caught going out of the service by some old contemporaries and had as friendly a chat as could be possible in the circumstances. He stiffened when he recognised Nigel the policeman. He half expected him to start talking about this missing girl story.

He drove back and made himself another coffee. He had no Christmas dinner and frankly had no appetite not for food, nor for sex. He checked the monitors, and saw that Dilan was lying back, her eyes closed as if asleep.

The success of his plans rested on Dilan not being missed nor ever treated as a serious missing person.

“Hello Dilan” he spoke as he entered the basement betraying his nervousness. “I have brought some food and drink. I am also going to put you into something more comfortable.”

He brought in a fold up chair and table and set up food and drink. He then released her restraints, and beckoned her to sit. She rubbed her wrists together, tenderly pulled herself up, swung her legs around, hopped off, and plumped her bare bottom on the plastic chair. She remained sullen and quiet.

Pembroke walked around and inspected the basement, patiently waiting for her to finish.

“Would you like to use the toilet?” She nodded and he pointed to the corner toilet. She sat down and stared ahead, doing her business, now more closely resembling sulking teenager than the traumatised and shocked victim she was last night.

“Now clean yourself, you are Middle Eastern so you should know it’s better to wash with water than paper so you better get used to this”

Dilan flushed and washed herself with the showerhead and dried off with the towel. Suddenly she looked around and stared at him inquisitively as to what was to be done next. The beauty of her eyes and the neutral expression disarmed Pembroke. He smiled at her, and there was moment of silence between them.

We should get you dressed a little. Come over here and stand on this spot,” he pointed at a point midway between the wall and the gynecological table. She followed obediently and stood with her feet together. Pembroke walked backward, keeping his eyes on her, as he went to the pile of her clothes. He already had a stockpile of clothes he had picked out for her behind the partition in the bedroom, but for now, he wanted her to be in her own clothes.

He picked out a pair of light green underwear and threw them at her. ‘Nice, put them on!’ She stretched them as if testing the elastic, then bent down, slipped her legs through them, and pulled them up tight. ‘Turn around, let me see.’ She turned around, and Pembroke took in the sight of her pert bottom already snugly embracing the panties, fitting perfectly. ‘Very nice.’

He selected a tight black vest and threw it at her. ‘Put it on.’ She pulled it over her head, freed her hair, and dragged it down over her breasts until it covered her belly button, leaving a strip of skin between the edge of the vest and the top of the green underwear. He picked up a hairband and tossed it on the ground. ‘Tie your hair back, it’s not a suggestion.’ She tied her hair into a ponytail, the same movement he had seen a thousand times in class, from a thousand girls, and it always captivated him.

“Take a seat, please,” he gestured to the chair. She sat down; the thin fabric covering her bottom felt nice against the plastic seat, and she felt a little more at ease. Pembroke folded the table away and leaned it against the cage, then walked back and sat on the edge of the gynaecology table, facing downward at the demure Dilan, herself sitting with her ankles crossed, her hands together on top of her thighs, looking as modest as could be compared to previously, despite being in underwear.

Dilan wondered that would happen. She accepted that she would have very little agency other than to not make him want to kill her. Perhaps he had changed his mind and wanted to release her. How could she persuade him she wouldn’t tell anyone?

“Dilan, there are a few things we need to clear up.” He cleared his throat and smiled. “Remember, you told me about your personal things last night?...” He raised his eyebrows as if to prod Dilan to expand on it.

“Yes, sir,” said Dilan obediently. She stared to the side, then looked directly at him, as if she were back in class. “What would you like to know, sir?”

Pembroke felt this was going well. “What is in them, what do they mean to you, and why did you not have them last night?”

“Abdul, sir. He said he would keep them for me. I think he wants to keep them so I don’t leave him. He doesn’t mind if I go away for a while, but he keeps my things.”

“I understand,” said Pembroke, noting that he and Abdul were not so different. Poor Dilan. “And what is in them?”

“Photos of my parents. My mother’s things, jewellery, nothing expensive,” she replied, her eyes blinking.

“I see. I am sorry about your family. You can tell me about them sometime soon if you wish...” said Pembroke kindly. He did not have time to go into family details now and wanted her onside and not emotional.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So why do you have a card to get into Abdul’s room, and don’t they change the cards, the hotels, every day?”

“Abdul lives there; it’s his room. I have had that card for the last two months. It worked yesterday, no, the night before yesterday ... it worked.”

“Can anyone go into the hotel and go into the room with a card?” He realized he would have to double-check this himself. It sounded too good to be true.

“Yes, sir, people go in and out all the time.”

It occurred to Pembroke that she might see this whole venture as a way of getting out of Abdul’s clutches, even if she were surely also thinking of escaping Pembroke’s clutches. “And you are sure it is room 203?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pembroke stared at her with teacher’s eyes to detect any lies. Could this be a trap, or at least an attempt to get him into a confrontation with this Abdul? He could not detect any lies, nor any way in which the specific action of going into room 203 with this card would trigger anything untoward. He then went to his next point.

“Now, your phones. Are they Android?”

“Yes, sir.”

He thanked God, privately. He had one Android battery charger in the house.

“Good. Now, I think I told you last night I had got rid of them. That’s not quite the truth. I have them squirreled away somewhere, ready to dispose of. But I think I have an idea. I can do something interesting with them first.”

He saw Dilan’s mouth turn down. She couldn’t hide her disdain for him, this reminder that she was his, and he was going to throw away what every teenage girl prized above more than anything, her phones.

“To get your possessions, I need to make sure Abdul is out of the hotel. To do that, I can text him from your phone, or on WhatsApp, and while he is out, voila, go in and get your things and bring them here. How’s that?”

“Thank you, sir, but ... my phones are probably dead by now.”

“I can charge them. My only problem is that I cannot bring you to the phones, and I cannot bring the phones to you. Do you have any ideas?”

He waited for her thoughts. On one point, he was genuinely interested to hear of any suggestion. He was also keen to see if she would try to trick him, and the extent of her ability to do so.

She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know...” she said meekly and started rubbing her shoulders and looked down. She sniffed and started to cry.

“Now, now” said Pembroke. He suddenly remembered he was her kidnapper and desperately tried to regain his composure and assert himself. “I will need your phones and you will give me your pass key.” He paused. Now I don’t want any trickery. I know that if one enters a wrong code a certain number of times, the phone will take a selfie or will send out some message to someone.” He knew how to guard against the selfie but not the code. This was starting to feel like too much.

“But I want access to your phones” He suddenly realised that he may have to start physical threats.

“If you want your things back of course, if you don’t give me the pass codes for the phones then you won’t get your things back from the hotel.”

She was biting her lips trying not to cry.

“Don’t’ worry I won’t nosy around your phone” he lied. He suddenly started – “Why the hell did you have two phones anyway?”

“I had one, and then Abdul got me another. Just useful...” she shrugged. He found this hard to believe.

“Right, so just give me your login for both phones or do you have logins...?”

“The one with the unicorn sticker on the back ... that one is 2010”

“The year of your birth” smiled Pembroke.

“And the one with Taylor Swift sticker on the back is “1234”

“Christ, you’re not going to be very good in cybersecurity, are you?” laughed Pembroke. He thought to himself that he now had enough information to charge the phones, turn them on, and take them somewhere—either leave them or put them on a train or something. It was Christmas, though, dammit.