at all, though at least it has a handle, and I wonder if I’m safe. My paranoia is so extreme that I’m starting to imagine all sorts of wild and crazy things. What if Sebastian’s lying about that room being a recording room? What if it’s a padded torture cell? What if Kate’s locked inside there? OK, calm the hell down, Orla.
I have to suppress a giggle, which threatens to turn into a sob as I think about how much Kate would love it if she could hear my thoughts right now. She’d die laughing. I’m perfectly safe, I tell myself firmly. Sebastian isn’t a danger. I’m just being silly and overly paranoid. Better paranoid than dead, the voice in my head pipes up.
I take a sip of tea and set it down on the side. It tastes funny, which is probably because it’s made from Lipton, which for some reason seems to be the only tea you can get when you’re abroad. Does anyone else, beside the Irish and the English, not know how to make a decent cuppa?
I perch on the corner of the bed and see that Rob’s called and left a message. We keep missing each other. Before I call him back, though, I check my social media. The Twitterverse has retweeted my tweet about Kate thirteen times, which isn’t what I’d hoped when I prayed it would go viral. No one has tweeted back to say they remember seeing her either.
I think about adding a Facebook status update about the situation but there isn’t much of one. Kate is still missing and what will anyone in England be able to do, other than send thoughts and prayers, which frankly aren’t going to be much help? I also don’t want to be fielding emails and calls from friends, which could tie up the phone line, in case Kate or the police call.
I’m not even aware of my eyelids drooping or of falling asleep but when I burst awake sometime later it’s with the gasp of a drowning woman. I’m sitting bolt upright, heart hammering. The room is dark and for a moment I’m confused as to where I am and think I’m in our Airbnb apartment, but then I remember I’m at Sebastian’s in the apartment downstairs. How did I fall asleep? I guess exhaustion finally caught up with me. Groggy, I check my phone only to find that it’s died. I root in my bag for the charger and plug it in, anxiously waiting for it to turn on and then, when it finally does, discovering it’s gone seven in the evening. I’ve been asleep for hours and there are several voicemails.
The first is from Kate’s mum. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t manage to book a flight. Can you get Kate to call me? Thanks.’
I have to replay the message to make sure I’ve heard it correctly. How the hell can I get Kate to call her? She’s missing! Kate really wasn’t joking when she said her mother redefined the term batshit crazy.
There’s a voicemail from Detective Reza too. She’s calling to tell me they haven’t been able to find Joaquim or Emanuel. I gave the police the address from Joaquim’s driver’s licence. Konstandin had the good sense to make him hand it over so we could take a picture as surety. I wonder if they’ve done a bunk or gone into hiding. They must have guessed that despite my promises I’d go to the police and are no doubt lying low, but I have to admit it’s a disappointment.
Rob has also left a message and I feel bad as I never called him back before falling asleep. I try calling him but it’s my turn to miss him. He might be putting Marlow down to sleep. I hope everything’s OK with her. Being away from her has pulled into focus just how much I love her. I stare at my screensaver, a picture of Marlow waving a carrot in the air like a flag, until I feel the tears start to build up and I have to put the phone down before I start bawling.
On stiff legs I move to the en-suite bathroom. My clothes feel damp and are sticking to me. I must have sweated in my sleep, probably from nightmares fuelled by my overactive imagination. Like the bedroom, the bathroom doesn’t have a lock, and I’m uneasy about it, but I need a shower – I feel rank – so I push my