“No. Not that. Thank God,” she mumbled.
She forced herself to sit up again, despite the pounding in her head, and then swung her legs off the bench. Remembering the vomit she put first one foot then another on to the floor, very gingerly, away from where she had been sick, but when she tried to stand she fell back on the bench.
For two or three minutes Marda breathed hard in and out. Then she tried again, supporting herself by holding on to the bench, which was about two-and-a-half feet from the stone floor. At the foot of the bench she touched a hard, flat wooden surface which she tapped and realised was some kind of door. In complete darkness she traced both hands across the door, finding a square metal lock with no handle. At the far end of the door, about two feet away, was the facing wall; she felt along it very carefully, afraid that it might hold something jagged, cutting, cruel. For roughly the same length as the bench she touched the wall with her fingertips. It was cold stone. Dry in most places, with a little damp here and there. No moss, no slime. Reaching the far end of the facing wall, she touched the corner and felt her way along the wall opposite the door. This time she stepped in her own vomit and, in disgust, she sat back on the bench.
The self-disgust began to invade her whole being. Then anger seemed to ride the helter-skelter of a mind in turmoil. Cold, numbing fear was the next passenger. Fear kept coming back, accompanied by terror and panic. Despair sometimes joined the black company: Marda even thought of killing herself before her kidnapper could violate and murder her.
She was slipping into hysteria. She had to talk to someone, even herself. “So a little bloody square cell,” she said aloud. It wasn’t exactly square, but the sound of her own swearing made her more confident. “I don’t care what they say about going nuts. I
Her introspection was disrupted by a scratching noise. It sounded far off, then she thought it was quite near. She wondered whether it was somebody, or something.
She shouted, “Who’s that?” but then thought that she should remain quiet. She was panting with panic. Each breath, however, sounded to Marda like the chug of a steam train. Soon the scratching noise stopped. After a few minutes, with trembling hands, she wiped the cold sweat from her brow.
It was darker than all the darknesses she had ever experienced before. It was suffocating her. The darkness seemed so heavy that it was like a huge creature pressing down on her chest. Feeling herself drowning in the enveloping miasma, Marda wanted to strike out at her oppressor.
She began to mumble to herself. In the space of minutes-or was it hours? — she was catapulted through highs and lows. First, depression at the hopelessness of her situation. Then euphoria in the certainty that it would last but a short time. For a few seconds she could pretend that it was all a nightmare, but then came the crashing reality. She roller-coasted from terror to resignation, to rebellion, a sense of abandonment, fear, hope, despair, anger…the will to live, to fight. She found herself screaming and then forced herself to think.
She wondered what the time was. Without a watch she felt herself to be lost on a sea of time, completely out of sight of any land. There was no time, only eternity; and that eternity was standing still. How long had it been since she had been attacked by “Michael”?
“I bet that’s not his real name,” she said quite loudly. Maybe the cell was bugged. “I don’t care if you
Utterly desperate, she stood up and groped her way to the door and banged it with both her fists until they hurt. “Is there anybody out there?” she yelled hysterically. “Where am I? What do you want with me?” The clawing pains of extreme panic rippled through her stomach; she cried like a little girl for several minutes, then made a concerted effort to pull herself together.
She couldn’t be sure, but Marda estimated that it had been a few hours or so since she was taken. So, she realised, it was a kidnap. But the wrong girl, she thought. Maybe they-Marda assumed a gang-were after Jenny, her friend with the rich father. But that was unlikely because she had spoken with this Michael on a number of occasions. And she had visited him in a church. Was he a bogus priest? It couldn’t be mistaken identity. He had seemed so kind, so cultured. If he’s so cultured what’s he doing putting me in here? A pervert? A psychopath? “Oh, God. Maybe he wants me for that. Then he’ll kill me.” She started to cry again, but stopped herself. “Whimpering and wailing are not going to do you any good, my girl.” The harsh-kind words said aloud reminded her of the times she had said them to comfort homesick younger girls in her boarding-school dormitory.
He seems a reasonable man and he’s obviously educated, she thought. Maybe there’s some mistake. I can talk to him. Explain. He’ll apologise and let me go home. Home? Nobody’s in my flat, she thought sourly. Nobody knows where I am. I’m not supposed to meet my boss in Bordeaux for a few days yet. I could be dead and buried by then.
She felt terrified and sick, and suddenly yearned for a cigarette, but he had taken all her belongings away. She could not believe what had happened to her, so she tried to organise her questions to make some sense of her living nightmare. In the confined space, she realised that she could smell her own fear, and this fear, she knew, was undermining her judgement. What judgement-how could she have trusted this priest? Who knows I’m here? No one except him. So who is he? Where is he now? What does he want? Where am I? Why, oh, why did he do this? What comes next? What if nothing is next…and I’m just left here to rot?
A talon of dread tore at her very being, and she shivered from terror as much as from the cold. Her breathing became laboured as she worked herself once again into a state of hysteria.
“Calm down, Marda,” she said aloud to herself. “We can sort this bastard out.”
Suddenly the “we” made her feel desperately alone, and she felt her whole life rushing before her. She so wanted to live. Once she had doubted the very existence of God, but now she wanted to be wrong about that. If there were a God, surely He could not be so cruel as to end her life here in this horrible dark place.
All her personal ambitions, plans for a career and tender unspoken hopes of love flashed through her mind in seconds. Now they were all gone. Now all she had was fear and darkness. She was entombed.
VI. The Tomb
Duval was feeling good. This capture had been easier than the others, and it pleased him that he was becoming more efficient and ruthless. Somebody might have seen him put Marda into his car, but how? It was so secluded and dark behind the church. If someone had seen him, surely they would have shouted? No, he was safe. Guildford was not so far, and she had not stirred. That hurtbane potion had worked; an old trick, dating back to the Norman Conquest, which could topple a man for an hour or so if applied correctly.
It was dark driving through the almost unlit village of Shere, and even if someone had seen him in his car with his dog up front, nobody would think twice about it. His driveway at the top of a dead-end lane was completely obscured by trees and bushes. He had been taking a chance, but he had done it. No one would ever know.
He lit the big wood-burning stove in the kitchen, and relaxed in his wooden rocker. In front of him he contemplated the pile of Marda’s belongings. First, he checked through her handbag and removed her address book, purse and keys, then, once the heat in the stove was intense, gradually fed its remaining contents into the fire. Her shoes, tights, skirt, blouse and jacket followed methodically. Duval hid the chloroform bottle in his attic, just in case he might need it for another chosen one. Marda’s purse, address book, keys and watch he put in a secret drawer, to be examined later before their disposal.
After making a cup of tea, Duval treated himself to a hot bath and sat down at his study desk, giving his crucifix a lop-sided grin which any fly-on-the-wall onlooker might have interpreted as a wink. An aura of contentment settled upon him, and he recalled part of a medieval parody of a monk’s prayer:
He loved the sound of Latin vowels, and the vigour of his own translation pleased him even more:
