defence. Then she would kill him if she had to. But what if he just left her to rot? No matter what, she would try once more to be friendly and interesting to him, but first he had to come down to the cellar.
She always knew when he was in the house because she would hear the bath water running every few hours.
On the third day, she was frantic with cold and hunger. She tried banging on the door, but she knew that the sound did not carry up through the stone floor, nor through the thick wooden cellar door. She would have to wait for him, or death.
On the fourth day, eventually, he came with bread and water. In a weak voice she managed some questions and apologies, but he said nothing. Four or five hours later he came back with coffee and oil for the heater, but he refused to respond to her at all. The coffee was grittier than usual, and the taste was a little more tart; she had learned that he was a creature of habit, so she wondered why he had changed his brand.
She was sleeping badly but she felt very tired, and thought that she might get a good night’s-or was it day’s- sleep. Just as she nodded off, there was a slight tap on the door. It woke her up, and she said, “Come in.”
The tapping continued for a while, and she shouted more loudly for Duval to enter. The door opened slowly, and she saw a thin arm, carrying a candle, move timidly around the edge of the door.
A frail figure of a woman, dressed in a rough white woollen dress, entered the room very slowly, as though she were sleepwalking. Marda was too astounded to speak. The woman, or rather the girl, probably in her mid- twenties, once pretty but now haggard, with a face lined as if by years of pain, did not speak; she just stared at Marda.
Marda shifted along her bed and gestured to the girl to sit down, but the stranger just stood. Eventually, she knelt as if in prayer and finally broke the silence. Her voice was thin, distant, weak: “You are Marda of Shere.”
Marda struggled to speak. “Yes…but who are you?”
“I am also from Shere, and my given name is Christine.”
Marda tried to think quickly. Was this zombie a survivor from Duval’s earlier guest list? Was she completely insane?
“Why are you here? How long have you been in this prison? Is there a way out? How have you survived, and where…?”
The visitor did not appear to grasp the urgency or intent of the flood of questions. “This has been my sole abode for many years, and I do not choose to leave. God has selected this place for me, and you are also a chosen one.”
Marda wanted to tell her to get lost, but instead she heard unbidden words spring from her own mouth: “God may be consciously experienced, but He remains incomprehensible, and my path is to search for His light, even though I may not attain the divine ecstasy.”
The visitor slowly rose from her kneeling position and leaned over as if to kiss Marda, but a few inches from her face the girl whispered in Marda’s ear, “Beware the lion of pride and the bear of sloth.”
Marda heard herself say in reply, “I have sinned with my pride and laziness in the search for the light, but I will repent.”
“Remember, my sister in Christ,” said the visitor, “you may suffer a state of utter dereliction by God, but you must understand that abandonment comes before attainment of that cloud of knowing.” And she turned towards the open door.
A part of Marda wanted to say, “If you got in here, how the hell do you get out?” But her speech would not match her thoughts. Instead her mouth said, “Will I see you again soon?”
The figure did not answer, but walked soundlessly out of the cell. Marda’s brain told her body to run through the open door, to follow her, to find a way out, to discover if there were some hidden exit, but her body refused to obey the commands of her brain, and the door slammed shut.
Despite the astounding experience, Marda inexplicably fell asleep; when she awoke in complete darkness, she did not know which dimension she was in, whether she was alive or dead, asleep or dreaming. She recalled the visit vividly. Had it been a more than usually realistic dream? Or had it actually happened? Was she now certifiably insane, or the victim of another of Duval’s sinister chemistry experiments? She could hardly ask his advice on the matter.
A few hours later her tormentor arrived. Even if she had wanted to broach the sensitive question of the unscheduled visitor to her maximum-security establishment, it was clear that Duval was still refusing to speak. He did, however, leave more substantial food, and a big bottle of water. He also left the light on for a few hours. This carried on for days.
Finally he came with food and a voice. “I hope you have learned a good lesson,” he said cruelly.
Marda was too afraid to risk saying the wrong thing, and it was not the time to raise questions about her perception of reality, so she waited. She was becoming an expert at waiting.
“You’re not ugly, but you will not be able to use sexual blandishments on me.”
“May I speak, Michael?” she asked meekly.
“Of course.”
“I apologise if I upset you. It was the drink and the sense of freedom. Please forgive me. I had meant to please you, not upset you. Please can we continue the lessons?”
In a harsh voice he said, “I shall bring you food and heat and leave the light on. Use this opportunity to read your Bible and pray for forgiveness from our Lord.”
“I will. I will. May I have my clothes back? At least my habit.”
“It is ironic-is it not? — that you should ask for a habit, not a worldly dress. Perhaps it is more than just the cold. I hope so. I shall come back with some more heating oil. It is very cold in here, I must admit.”
“Thank you,” she said with real sincerity.
Ten minutes later he came back with two large containers of oil. “This should keep you warm for a week,” he said in his best distant manner. “When the room is really warm, I’ll come back with more food and new books.”
“Thank you very much.”
He also emptied her portable toilet.
About two hours later he returned. After days of darkness and loneliness she felt as though she were on a crowded aircraft. Her spirits lifted after he had brought in a tray of food, until she saw him produce the handcuffs from his pocket. She tried to sound sweet and lively, but not too pushy: “Are you taking me upstairs again? Please, I would love to get out of here for a while. And will you give me back something to wear, please?”
“Perhaps later. Please handcuff yourself to the end of your bench,” he said with cold politeness.
“Why, Michael? I can’t go anywhere.”
She did not want to argue because she wanted the food. She took the cuffs and clicked the lever shut across the loop and the other metal circle around her left wrist, while trying to hold the blankets covering her naked body.
Duval leaned forward and pulled the blanket off her.
“Please
He stared at her naked form. “You were throwing yourself at me last week,” he spluttered with outrage. “Now you pretend to be modest.”
She huddled into a ball, trying to cover her nakedness.
“So the coy young thing now.”
“Please. I offered myself to you before. When I was… drunk. But I
“I promise I will not touch you, except to take hold of your leg here.”
As he said this, he produced another set of cuffs from his jacket pocket.
“Please don’t, Michael.” Fear made her raise her voice, which she was trying to keep calm to avoid angering him further.
Chained as she was, she tried to pull her legs up, but he forced them down and cuffed her right ankle to the loop at the bottom of her bench. Now she was spread-eagled, facing outwards on her bench, with just her right hand to cover her naked body.
“What do you want to do?” she cried almost hysterically.
“Nothing. I want to look at you.”
