I hate him. He is so frightening. Michael, I told you his name, his surname is Duval. He is Father Michael but I call him Michael. I am trying really hard to be his friend so he doesn’t kill me, like he did the others. Oh, Jenny, I so want to live-there’s so much I want to do. Just one hour-even half an hour-to be with you, going shopping or to the theatre in Guildford. Just one drink in the King’s Head.
Sometimes I don’t hate him as much. I have learned a lot. Mainly about religion. In some ways I hate God for letting me be here, being imprisoned by one of His priests. Perhaps he is not a real priest, after all, but he certainly knows a lot about religion. And I have learned about history. Every now and then I think I am in a crazy university, but I could walk out of a university and just go back to work and enjoy my life with you, and my other friends. And my family. I wish you could tell them that I love them so much. I could even hug my brother and tell him I love him too. I have never told him that.
Have you seen Jim at all? I promised to ring him back. Of course I couldn’t. If only I could tell him that I wasn’t ignoring him.
Oh! My poor parents. If only they could know that I’m not dead. Not yet. Not by a long way. I try to keep fit by press-ups and running on the spot. I suppose I must look awful but I don’t know because I haven’t looked in a mirror. I have had to give up smoking, which is one “plus,” I suppose. I’ve asked him for some ciggies, especially my own brand. I’d love a puff before going to bed. I never go to sleep straightaway. I’m either too cold or hungry or sometimes just too frightened. I have dreams-bad dreams- about seeing Denise’s body. Well, skeleton. It’s in the next cell to mine. There are five skeletons, I think, all within a few feet of me. It’s creepy. More than creepy, as you can imagine. Could you really imagine my situation? I am afraid to write how I really feel, to give in to total despair.
I am trying to be brave. I remember some of the mountaineering things we tried and how I failed some of the courses. I think I could do all that now. Sometimes I think I can be brave but then I get floods, yes floods, of fear. I cry until my body aches. I have even thought of trying to kill myself, but I don’t know how. Then I say NO! I will come through this! Talking to you helps, you know.
At other times I feel OK. Like he needs me. If he needs me, he won’t kill me. Am I right? Even when I am so scared I try to look happy, just so that he likes talking to me. I have to act, but he seems to know when I’m acting. He is clever; perhaps cunning is a better word.
There are times when he is almost nice. I almost feel sorry for him. Like if I was free I would help him. I couldn’t really, of course, because he has killed all those girls.
I wish I knew what to do. I have thought of trying to hit him hard and make a run for the door, but he is a big man. Looks athletic, although I would think he is about 45. He’s got strong hands. I don’t think I could get the better of him.
I felt better starting this letter. Now I feel it’s pretty useless. But thanks anyway. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Always your very, very best friend,
All my love,
Marda
PS. I still would like to go to Portugal with you for Christmas. I hope you haven’t given away my ticket!
PPS. Reading this letter for the twentieth time makes life sound so superficial. I want to do the ordinary things, but most of all I want to see the sun, feel rain on my face, hold someone’s hand, run for just a few yards, to live for a few minutes without fear, to tell my Mum how I adore her, to put my arms around my brother, to hear my father’s voice. It is these little things that really really count. Please remember that.
Marda wiped her tears on one of the two towels that Duval had given her. She carefully folded the letter as small as it would go, then standing on the bench, she pushed it into the air vent.
“Useless mail box,” she said aloud. She suddenly remembered a joke from her childhood: “What’s the difference between a post box and an elephant’s bum?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a silly Mickey Mouse voice. “What
“You don’t know? Well, I wouldn’t send
She laughed hysterically, and then burst into tears again. Shaking, she pretended to light a cigarette, and thought that in the films tough guys smoked and didn’t cry. She felt that her life now was just like some terrible B- movie, except she couldn’t walk out in the middle of it. She coughed from the imagined smoke and that stopped the tears, but not the pain in her head. She’d had a bad cold for about a week; although he had brought her some aspirins, they didn’t help. She did not beg to be taken upstairs. That wouldn’t have worked, but she told him that nearly two months of no fresh air was driving her mad. “If only I could see the sky!” she said.
She worried about her health, as she had not menstruated since her incarceration. Perhaps my body is going haywire, she told herself.
Then she began irrationally to fear that somehow he had made her pregnant; that maybe she had been drugged again. She developed a brooding fear that she had been impregnated by the Devil, that some dark beast lurked in her womb, even though her weight loss told her that this was impossible. She hadn’t even thought about sex since her capture, so perhaps part of her was closing down for the duration. She wondered whether it would be temporary; she prayed that her ability to bear children was not being taken away by the monster upstairs.
The next morning he knocked on her door before unlocking it.
“How are we this morning?” he asked cheerfully.
“I feel awful, Michael. My headache’s getting worse,” she said, her voice racked with self-pity. “Can I please just walk around in fresher air outside in the corridor? And I don’t want to see any more rooms, I promise. I won’t try to escape. You can see I’m too weak.” She was sitting limply on her bench.
He came in and helped her up, the first time he had touched her since he had captured her. She looked at him in surprise, and he drew back his hand, as if he had suffered an electric shock.
“No, Michael. Don’t be afraid of touching me,” she said reassuringly. “I appreciate your trying to help me up. May I walk a little outside the room?”
He gestured towards the open door. “The cellar door is locked, but I will permit you to walk up and down to give your legs a bit of exercise, and the air is a little fresher out there because the main door has been open for a while.”
She hesitantly stepped through the door into the corridor, and walked gently up and down with childlike pleasure, despite her cold. She didn’t speak for a few minutes, then she said abruptly, “What is the weather like outside? Raining I expect.”
“No, it’s dry, but very windy.”
“Has there been snow at all? Are we into November yet?”
“It’s actually the fifth of December.”
She stopped walking, and her pale face seemed to sag into total lifelessness. “I’ve been here since the seventh of October,” she said in disbelief. “That’s nearly two months. I had no idea it was that long…I must have lost track completely. I should have kept a calendar from the start, but I was sort of lost for those first few weeks, wasn’t I?”
He gave her a look bordering on kindness: “You were a bit.”
“But I am better now?” She spoke as though she were a little child.
“Yes, and we get on better,” he said in an avuncular fashion.
“You’re not, not going to kill me?”
“No, I never had any intention of doing you any harm, as I told you. You are my pupil.”
Marda thought she would quit while she was still ahead. She changed the subject: “What’s that big crucifix for?”
“That came from my first church in East Anglia. They were renovating the place, and I was the only one who wanted it. I’ve had it for twenty-odd years. Sentimental foolishness, really.”
That was one of the first signs of sentiment he had confessed to, she realised.
“But why put it in the cellar?”
“No room upstairs, and I had intended this to be a holy place. But it hasn’t…worked out. It’s become like a graveyard. Well, until you came. So, let’s make sure you get well and we can proceed with your seminars, so you can come upstairs out of this draughty place, at least for our teaching sessions. I must admit I get a bit
