Switched

By Maxine Millar

Sophie lives in New Zealand. She has been dominated and abused by her husband Colin for decades. But now her life is at a turning point as her and her children's financial future is threatened. Her husband intends to gamble more and more of their assets. He ignores her wants and needs. She wants to act but is afraid he might kill her this time. She has brave friends ready to challenge him, who have been planning, scheming and organising. But Sophie struggles with any independent action. She must give herself permission to hope, to dream and to act. She must switch herself from automatic to manual control. And that is a huge switch. That requires her to think, to plan, to feel, to become more vulnerable in order to take control of herself off him. She isn't sure she can do it. She is certain he will fight it. And she is terrified of him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maxine Millar
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005616601

Maxine Millar

Maxine lives in New Zealand, on a life style block. She now writes full time.

Book preview

Chapter One

Sunday

Colin Wallace awoke groggily, aware he had to move. He threw back the duvet and stumbled to get to his feet. He hung onto the bed with both hands while he tried to orient himself. His mouth stank and the rest of him wasn’t much better. He wondered, where am I? He set the open toilet door as his target and lurched forward but his eyesight was fuzzy, he was dizzy, his head pounded, his balance control seemed off and it was the most peculiar looking toilet he had ever seen. He tried to use his brain and figure this out. So many things were wrong here. Looking around the unfamiliar, shabby, dusty, tiny bathroom, he spotted some Panadol on the window shelf, cuddled up to what could be his toothbrush. He swallowed four Panadol, cupping his hands to get some water.

He looked in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. Not the face he wanted to remember. Jowly, saggy, broken capillaries, puffy blue hooded eyes, a wispy few grey hairs, definitely needing a shave. When had he got so old? He staggered back to bed. When the headache eased, he might be able to work on the most important problems. Where was he and what had happened to him? He lay back down.

But his brain was at war with itself. One half, the sick half, wanted to shelve the problems and go back to sleep. The other half, the angry half, wanted to work on questions, analysis and problem solving. His anger increased. So much for sleep. Carefully, he sat up, peered around, found his glasses and looked out the windows. All four of them. He could do that from where he was. The bed was a double but its location, jammed against the wall, suggested it was positioned that way for one occupant. That wasn’t the way he normally slept. He was dressed. This was wrong too. He normally wore warm pyjamas, especially when it was this cold. The shack (?) looked about twenty feet by twenty not counting the bathroom.

He could see there was a rudimentary kitchen on one wall, a tiny table across from it, his bed and a tallboy in this corner and the bathroom in the other. Between the table and the bed was an old, open fire place. He figured the lounge was the middle bit where the small sofa and armchair were. He staggered up and lurched over to the kitchen where he could see a grocery bag.

Investigation revealed groceries still in the bag; coffee, bread, cereal, peanut butter, ketchup, cans of veges, baked beans, spaghetti and more stuff underneath. Opening the fridge, he spotted milk, margarine, two packets of salami and that was all. No alcohol. No smokes. That made two big problems both of which were going to get a whole lot worse. He went back to the grocery bag, fished out the coffee packet and proceeded to make a coffee. It took a bit of planning. There was a gas stove and a kettle. Matches were on the windowsill. His hands shook while he figured out how to light the gas ring. At least there was water in the kettle. He ended up with spilt coffee and just over half a cup left. He staggered over to the table and sat down carefully, hoping the chair would take his weight. It did. It groaned, but it took his weight. His knees and hips groaned at his weight too. So did his doctor, he reflected wryly.

There was a thin layer of dust on the old, bare, wooden table, which was jammed into the wall. There were only two, old wooden chairs. Everything he could see seemed to be old. So was he. Before his time. ‘Only’ seventy, and he was old. He felt ninety. He knew people in their nineties who were fitter and healthier and much spryer than he was.

From where he sat, he could see the sea out the window beside him and a hill out the south window. He hadn’t a clue where he was or how he had arrived here but he was certain of one thing. No way had he come here of his own free will! Had he been kidnapped? He opened the outside door and peered out. So he wasn’t a prisoner. He looked at himself but could see no signs of damage. Apart from his feet and legs. He hadn’t seen them for years except in front of a mirror. A large overhang was in the way. He looked at what he could see. No bruising. No shackle marks. No tears to clothing. So he hadn’t been kidnapped and he wasn’t a prisoner. But what was he doing here? How did he get here? He shut the door. It was cold outside. It wasn’t much warmer inside.

He slowly drank the coffee, made another and drank that as well. He followed it with cereal and cold milk. He preferred hot milk with his cereal and his hot and cold running wife to make it. Where was she? Where was he? There was no sweetener and no sugar. He ate it anyway. By that time, his headache had settled to a disgruntled ache, rather than the obliterating pounder it had been. That was an advantage. He could now think. He saw one of his suitcases on the floor. The dusty floor. His sponge bag on top. Well, it wouldn’t fit on the window shelf of the bathroom nor anywhere else in that room. But there had been a tiny cupboard hadn’t there? He heaved himself up and staggered to the bathroom. He opened the small bathroom cupboard and found tablets with his name on them. He checked; Simvastatin, Bisoprolol, Metformin, more Panadol. For his high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes and pain. Stuffed joints and headaches caused the pain which required the Panadol so he could bloody well function! He felt betrayed by his body. He staggered back to the tiny kitchen and opened all four of the cupboards under the sink bench. No alcohol. His phone! Where was it? His wallet was there. He couldn’t find his keys; any of them. And crucially, he couldn’t find his cell phone.

Reopening the glass panel door to the outside, he looked around. Properly looked this time. He saw tracks, drag marks and small shoe prints. None his size. Sophie’s size. Small. Lots of shoe prints. His suspicions burst forth. This was starting to make sense! Footprints of two or three women? He could guess which ones. And Sophie would have needed help to dump him here. Because that’s how he felt. Not kidnapped then. Dumped. He seethed.

He walked around the outside of the wooden shack. Wooden-framed windows. That probably meant it was built before the aluminium windows were invented in the 1970’s. He noticed he was steadier on his feet but still staggering a bit. He looked around the shack and then into the distance, but there were no signs of anyone or any dwellings. There was a small shed but it held only two old fishing rods, rod holders, a fishing tackle box, waders and some other stuff like axes. All useless. He had never fished and didn’t know how to. He had never cut firewood. It was cold. That might be a problem.

He thought back to his last memory which was of picking up the groceries. The ones which were in that bag? He hadn’t looked inside at the time. He seldom did. Sophie ordered the groceries online and he picked them up from the store on the way home. She always put things away. Housework was her job. He vaguely remembered eating tea. Did he? And drinking his usual whiskies. Had he gotten drunker than usual? The headache was worse than usual. Was he sick? Had Sophie drugged him? She’d done that before he suspected. He had slept suspiciously long on at least two occasions he could think of. So if so, why this time? Had he been nasty with her again? More and more he was becoming convinced that Sophie had something to do with this. So it wasn’t ominous. But it was astonishing. But it couldn’t be her. She wouldn’t dare.

He walked back inside and thoroughly searched. His clothes had been put away in the tallboy, his medication was put away and some of the groceries. He searched every pocket. No phone. This had been planned. If he had died last night, the cops would have concluded he had organized a reclusive weekend. Never. Not by himself, never in a dump like this. How had they found this place? How had she got him here?

He would bet on Nicky being involved. She had been a nurse. She would be the ring-leader. A big brown-eyed brunette. A bit bigger and taller than he liked them. Yvonne would be the second-in-command. Yvonne was another tall woman, though slimmer than the other. But fairly good looking for their ages though he didn’t fancy either. Mainly because neither knew their place.

He was pretty sure Nicky didn’t work. Yvonne had a craft shop. Sophie had met her there years ago. He had tried so hard to stop Sophie getting out of the house and contacting those two. Sophie got ideas when she saw those two. She didn’t dare say anything but he noticed the change in her attitude. She didn’t obey him as quickly. And both those two had had the nerve to tell him off for mistreating Sophie.

Again, he circled outside the shack, looking for a ship, a dwelling, any signs of human habitation. There was none. Ahead of him was the sea, behind him was a cliff and the shack was built on what looked like an ancient rock fall from the cliff behind. It looked like the shack had been here for years so clearly the sea didn’t get up this far. The flat bit the shack was on had room for the shack, the sheds, a couple of cars and that was all. He was pretty sure he knew what the second shed was. He opened the door; yep, a long drop. He shut the door hastily. There was clearly a gradient on both sides of the rockfall, built for cars. Someone could have driven him here. He could guess who.

With a sudden appalling thought, he almost ran inside and checked his wallet. His credit card was missing! Sophie had access to money! If she found his password book, she could use the computer and get access to all their money! The whole point of making her put her pension into his bank account was so she had no access to money. She owned nothing that he didn’t control. She had run away twice, years ago, with the kids. But the girls had missed their own home, their life and their friends. So she had come crawling back. And he had tightened the noose around her.

He had never anticipated her throwing him out. That was what the evidence suggested; the footprints, the packing, his wallet and no phone, the groceries, all the unpacking. Sophie, not a stranger, not a kidnapper. But how could he prove any of this? This was all planned to look like he had come here voluntarily. Even his wallet was here. But without his cell phone, he couldn’t call for help. He couldn’t stop his credit card. Were they coming back for him? He doubted it. They wouldn’t dare. And then he rethought that. How did they expect to get away with this? All of them but especially Sophie. She must know he wouldn’t stand for this. She knew there would be a penalty. He was puzzled as to why he wasn’t livid. But it was a mystery. He loved puzzles and codes, and enigmas. And he didn’t feel threatened. Why had Sophie dared? She knew what would happen when he got his hands on her.

Years of working in a multitude of roles in the insurance industry had taught him how to interview people. How to analyse their responses and how to look for their ‘buy button.’ What did they fear, what were their priorities, their needs, their wants? He keenly noticed little things. Sophie now, her ears went pink when she was getting annoyed. It delighted him; the feeling of power and control he had over her. He loved to annoy her. And he loved to wear down her resistance. Because now a clear motive was flashing in his mind. She was trying to stop his trip to Las Vegas! That made more sense than anything! He was sure he had it now! It was the money! She wanted to stop him getting access to her superannuation which had just matured. She wanted to stop his Las Vegas trip. Little bitch! That had to be it! That was the best answer to the question. Motive. Timing. Opportunity. Means. Accomplices.

But how had they manoeuvred him to transport him here? He wasn’t light. But then he supposed three women could lift him. Maybe. How could they have got him here? So had they involved someone else to get him here? Wherever here was. So, it was Saturday today. They had to stop his meeting with the bank on Monday and Sophie would therefore probably want to get her money locked back down again. She wouldn’t try to hide it would she? She might, if Nicky and Yvonne pushed her into doing that. So this should be all right then. They would pick him up on Tuesday. Or Monday night. Idiots. That wouldn’t stop him. He’d make another appointment.

But there was a bad problem if he had to stay here for three days. He had now been without tobacco for around sixteen hours and ditto for alcohol. The nicotine craving was biting. And how long could he go without alcohol? Would he go into withdrawal? Was he addicted to booze as well? What was it his mother had been told about his father? Not to let him go over three days without booze?

Well he had never gone a day without booze. So, he was about to find out if he was addicted to booze as well as nicotine. In two more days. He made another coffee and glanced at his watch. Nearly midday. He had slept longer than usual. Something was bugging him though. He looked back at his watch, an expensive, gold, day/date top-of-the-range Tag Heuer. Sunday it indicated. It couldn’t be Sunday! It was Saturday. Yesterday was Friday. Why was his watch saying Sunday?

He considered and he shuddered; if his watch said Sunday was it Sunday? Could his watch make a mistake? He didn’t think so. So had he been unconscious for thirty or so hours? Not overnight? Had he missed the football? His team were playing. What about lotto? He had fifteen tickets and it was a jackpot. Had he won? Was that why he was here? Had that bitch decided to cash in his tickets? He almost ran to his wallet and found his tickets. He counted them. Fifteen. That wasn’t it then. Back to the motive being the Monday bank meeting and the Las Vegas trip.

He went back over the evidence. None of this made any sense, it was far too drastic. She could have refused to go to the meeting. So had he been kidnapped? But that didn’t make sense either. Not with the unlocked door. Nothing made sense. But the likelihood was Sophie and those bloody friends of hers. And he felt that thinking it was her, made this less ominous. She wouldn’t plan to kill him. There would be a way out. There must be help within walking distance. This was New Zealand, not Siberia. And he was by the sea. So logically, he should be able to walk out along the coast. He could follow the car tracks! Of course. But should he wait another day first? So he would be steadier on his feet and less drunk. No, if it was Sunday, the alcohol would be gone wouldn’t it? Was he over-thinking all this?

No, he thought. Much thinking was required! He wasn’t undertaking what could be a strenuous walk today. He was in no condition for that. Wryly, he wondered if he would ever be in good condition for a long walk. Football had stuffed up both ankles and both knees and severely upset one hamstring ligament and one shoulder. Both on the right. So far, he had had two knee replacements and his doctor thought surgery on his right shoulder was indicated soon. And then there was the small problem of his weight. A long walk would be impossible, not inadvisable. And it was cold, he could see dark clouds and if he got wet and cold, he would be in a lot of trouble.

He yawned and then wandered outside again. In the shed he found a new bundle of kindling and a small quantity of cut wood that he hadn’t noticed before. He looked at the sky again. Best get some wood and get a fire laid. He saw a handcart and decided to take that. He headed for the high tide mark. A few minutes later, he had a cart full of driftwood and he was sore, puffed and dizzy. So much for walking out of here! He returned to the shack and sat down, leaving the wood at the door. He could kill for a smoke. Or a drink. Or some biscuits. He got up, tipped the contents of the grocery bag out hopeful for some biscuits and found firelighters and a gas lighter. Well clearly, his beloved wife intended to help him survive. Was he going nuts? Why was he seeing this defiance as a challenge? It had been a long time since he was a boy scout! Yet the more he saw of things brought here for him, the more positive he felt. And he did love a puzzle. Of one thing he was sure; he was intended to survive. This was temporary. So logically, they would come back for him. Or they would send someone. Yes, that made sense. Sophie might report to police where he was and say he was overdue and she was worried about him because of his health. Or lack thereof. That was the best explanation yet. And what did she think he would tell the police?

On that positive note, he made another firewood trek, had a rest and then did another. After yet another rest, he cut up a little bit of firewood, discovering his balance was still lousy, his aim was worse, it was far more difficult for a first-timer than he thought and it required a lot more force. This, despite a sharp axe and a chopping block. Cutting and fetching firewood was Sophie’s job. Deciding he’d had enough exercise for the day, he sorted out the smaller pieces of wood that should fit in the fireplace and brought the whole cart inside. It fitted. He set the fire but didn’t light it. He had a heat pump at home and a modern, cast iron, solid fuel fire. He had no idea how fast an open fireplace would burn through the wood. He had a vague idea that they were a lot less efficient and things such as the type of wood and its water content made a difference. He’d learnt some of this in the boy scouts but he had never in his life cut firewood.

He decided on two big chunks of salami and a tin of peas for tea with some of the bread. He would have to ration the food. They might not come on Monday. Or Tuesday. There was more food than that. Enough for a week. Two with rationing. But he immediately foresaw a problem with walking out. He had no idea how far it was to civilization. The only thing he could use to carry fresh water was the milk container. There was one two-litre container. Two litres for an unknown distance.

Maybe he should look for shellfish. He loved shellfish. That would make his food last longer. The scanty quantity of milk was a problem for him though. Worse, once the milk was used, it was black coffee which he didn’t like as much. And dry cereal. Which he doubted he would like at all. But it was food.

Without much enthusiasm, he ate tea. Not nearly as good as home cooking. He looked at his watch. It was now nearly four pm. He decided to light the fire and found one firelighter and the kindling made the task easy. He tended it for a while, slowly building it up with tiny bits of driftwood and then larger ones until the little shack warmed up nicely. He decided to do some more exploring and looked around for the light switch. He couldn’t find it. Puzzled, he realised he couldn’t see any lights either. He walked outside and made a circuit of the shack. And then another. There were no power lines. Did that mean there was no electricity? But there was a fridge. There must be power!

He walked back inside and checked the fridge, then looked outside near where the fridge was. There were two, 9kg gas bottles. He found another one outside the bathroom. And he had spotted a fourth in the shed.

Now thoroughly annoyed, he wondered what he would do during the long night. It was winter! Ten hours of decent daylight. He hadn’t seen a torch or a lantern. He went back inside again and searched for a fourth time. The trouble was, his brain seemed to operate in spurts. It would work for a while and then coast along and he would do things and then forget what he had done. A bit like the times when he had had concussion. He forced himself to concentrate and found some books; old paperbacks mostly, filling the bottom drawer of the tallboy. Must be twenty to forty of them. He hadn’t seen them last time he had looked. Why not? Why was his brain half asleep? Why was concentrating so difficult? His brain was usually the only part of him that he could guarantee was still in working order!

By now it was after five and the light was starting to fade. There were no lanterns and no torches and no candles and that was a right problem! With the clouds, there would be no moon. It was going to be a long night. But his brain seemed to be in such a state, more and lots of sleep seemed to be a good idea and it wasn’t like he could do anything else. He concluded this was meant to be used as a summer shack. Definitely not a four-season dwelling. Restless, he went to look at the books and found a western. He pulled the easy chair towards the fire, added more wood and proceeded to read until he couldn’t see clearly, even right next to the fire. He stood up and walked over to the kitchen. He looked towards the sea and saw lights. Shocked, he looked around, seeing the shack surrounded by weak but definite lights. People? Apprehensively, he walked outside to investigate and saw they were stationary, solar lights. No people. He picked several up and brought them inside. He used the peas tin for one light, sticking the spike into the tin. He used glasses and cups for five more. He placed one in the bathroom, one by his bed and the rest around the fire but found their light weakened. He moved them back until they shone properly again. The firelight was stronger but the solar lights drove away the shadows. He was enormously relieved to have light. He went outside for the rest, another two. Eight points of sanity.

At seven thirty, he decided to go back to bed. The rain that had been threatening all day had finally arrived, along with gusty winds. It was cold and draughty. He stayed in his clothes. He hadn’t taken time to look at, or work out, the shower or how to heat the water. He wasn’t showering in cold water. A gas cylinder was there for a reason. Otherwise, it was what was known as a bucket bath with water heated on the stove. Echoes of his childhood when his mother turned off the hot water heater for the winter. Because that gave them two hours heater use a night. Consequences of poverty. So washing was a problem for tomorrow. He thought that considering everything, he had done rather well today. For someone so unpractical, he admitted to himself rather smugly.

Chapter Two

Still Sunday, many hours earlier

If this all went bad, Nicky thought, she had only herself to blame. She should have come yesterday! As she got out to open the last gate, she looked up at the grey sky. It had been fine in Christchurch! Just her luck. She drove steadily down the track which ran parallel to the beach. Seeing her marker, a broken net with five floats, she managed to turn her car around so she was lined up for a fast take off. She locked the car and took out her backpack. She slung her camera and binoculars around her neck, picked up her raincoat and the backpack cover and headed off.

She walked steadily for ten minutes to her next marker; another shredded net with floats. Now she crept slowly, hunched down, walking carefully and warily. Reaching the point, she left the track and climbed up until she reached the third marker, yet another shredded net with floats. This one was much larger, the net arranged to create a hide. It had taken them some time to make it look convincingly windblown. It was decorated with seaweed, part of their preparation for an event they did not expect would ever happen.

She shrugged out of her backpack and rummaged within the connected driftwood pile which was also strategically arranged to look casual. She got out her deckchair and then eased down behind the shelter, from where she could scrutinise the shack and the surroundings, nearly twenty feet below. Nothing. She picked up her binoculars and looked for footprints, seeing none. She studied the windows. There were no curtains so she had a good view but couldn’t see him inside. She couldn’t see inside! The lack of footprints frightened her. He should have at least come out and had a good look around yesterday. Her apprehension multiplied. Had he vomited and died? She had left him on his side. He could have rolled back. Had Sophie exceeded instructions?

Two long hours passed. Her fear rose. She delved into the pack, emerging with her thermos and poured a coffee to try to distract herself. Calm down, she ordered herself. Her nerves disobeyed. She munched a bit of a beef and relish sandwich. And put it away. She’d lost her appetite. Why hadn’t they anticipated a dark day and poor visibility? But they hadn’t. If he was moving around inside, she couldn’t see him. Was he reading? She might only see him if he was silhouetted against a window. Damn. When they had rehearsed this, Yvonne had been clearly visible inside, standing by the window. Of course, her white hazmat gear probably helped. Colin had grey hairs, a few hundred maybe and he often dressed in greys. Yvonne was a blue-eyed blonde. Natural too, though starting to grey. Nicky was envious. Her own hair was a middle brown; a good dye job over grey. Pretending to be the colour she had had until she just hit her forties. Yvonne was just over fifty. It wasn’t fair. Yvonne had been so easy to see inside the shanty. She was even dressed in white. It had been a sunny day. They hadn’t thought of any of that.

She looked at her watch. It was just after eleven am. Where was he? Had he walked out yesterday? She continually scanned with her eyes and with the binoculars. Down the beach, all around the shack, over by the point, anywhere he might be. Where was he? Had he left? Had he drowned? He had to be all right and they had to keep him here until tomorrow! Preferably alive but only because of legal consequences.

As time passed, her despair grew. She decidedly did not want to go to prison now! She wasn’t even at retirement age yet. Another two months to her sixty-fifth birthday and the pension. And access to her superannuation fund. The end of a penny-pinching existence.

There! She thought she saw a movement. Against the window, over by the kitchen. Was that where he was? It was cold and he hadn’t lit the fire. Why not?

And then she watched in unspeakable relief as she saw him stagger around the shack. Why was he staggering? Had that little minx of a Sophie slipped him a mickey? Diazepam maybe? Even if she had, why hadn’t it worn off? No. He wasn’t used to diazepam and it didn’t wear off completely until around thirty-six hours? So it would still be having some effect. Add alcohol. Yeah, with that combination, staggering made sense. But she was so relieved to see him alive. She didn’t fancy being an accessory to murder. Well manslaughter. Pest destruction really. She took several photos. She was now chuckling. And was by now definitely hungry. She poured another coffee and ate the rest of the sandwich and then ate another. She reflected she had gone from near terror to chuckling. But her legs were sore and her back too. So much for the deckchair. She couldn’t sit