It was dark. Not quite night, but very nearly. She realized that it would be pitch black in the cell in just a couple of hours as they hadn’t left her a candle or an electric light. But how was that possible? It had been around two o’clock when she had entered St Meredith’s and the sun had been shining. Suddenly it was early evening. So what had happened to the time in between?
Scarlett was shivering – and not just because of the shock of what she had been through. It was freezing in the cell. There was no glass in the window and no heating. The bare brickwork only made it worse. Fortunately she had been wearing her winter coat when she set off on the school trip and she drew it around her, trying to bury herself in its folds. She had never been so cold. She could actually feel the bones in her arms and legs. They were so hard and brittle that she thought they might shatter at any time.
Desperately, she tried to work out what had happened. For no reason that she could even begin to imagine, a man she had never met had grabbed her and thrown her into a cell. Could she have strayed into a secret wing of St Meredith’s, somewhere that no one was meant to go? The single strip of sky told her otherwise. That and the freezing weather. She remembered that the monk had spoken in a foreign language.
She was no longer in London.
It seemed crazy but she had to accept it. Maybe she had blacked out at the moment she had been seized. Maybe they had drugged her and she had been unconscious without even knowing it. Everything told her that this wasn’t England. Somehow she had been spirited away.
With a spurt of anger, she scrambled to her feet and went over to the door. She wasn’t just going to sit here and wait for them to come back. Suppose they never did come back? She might die in this place. But she quickly saw that there was no way through the door – not unless it was unlocked from the other side. It was massive and solid, with a single keyhole built for an antique key. She tried to squint through it but there was nothing to see. She straightened up, then hammered her fists against the wood.
“Hey! Come back! Let me out of here!”
But nobody came. She wasn’t even sure if her voice could be heard outside the cell.
That left the window. Could she possibly climb up, using the rough edges of the brickwork to support herself? Scarlett tried but her fingertips couldn’t get enough grip, and anyway the bars at the top were too close to squeeze through, even assuming she could drop down on the other side. No. She was in a solid box with no trapdoors, no secret passages, no magic way out. She would just have to stay here until somebody came.
She sank back into a corner, trying to preserve what little body warmth she had left by curling herself into a ball. The strange thing was, she should have been terrified. She was completely helpless, a prisoner. This was an evil place. But she still couldn’t accept the reality of what had happened to her and because of that it was difficult to feel scared. This was all like some bad dream. Once she had worked out how she had got here, then maybe she could start worrying about what was going to happen next.
An hour passed, or maybe two. Finally there was a rattle of a key in the lock, the door swung open again and two monks came into the cell. Scarlett couldn’t say if they were the ones who had grabbed her in the corridor as all these people were dressed the same way. Their hoods were up and they were skeleton-thin. Even if you stood them up against a wall, it would have been difficult to tell them apart.
One of them barked out a command in the strange, harsh language she had heard before and when he saw that she didn’t understand, made a rough gesture, telling her to stand up. Scarlett did as she was instructed. Her face gave nothing away but she was already thinking. If they took her out of here, maybe she would be able to break away. She would run back down the corridor and find the nearest exit. Whatever country she was in, there would have to be a policeman or someone else around. She would make herself understood, somehow find her way home.
But right now, the two monks were watching her too closely. They led her out with one standing next to her and the other directly behind, so close that she could actually smell them. Neither man had washed, not for a long time. As they reached the corridor, Scarlett hesitated and felt a hand pushing her roughly forward. She turned left. The three of them set off together.
Where was she? The place had the feel of an old palace or a monastery, but one thing was certain – it had been abandoned long ago. Everything about it was broken down and neglected, from the peeling walls to the paved floor, which was slanting and uneven with some sort of mould growing through the cracks. Naked light bulbs hung on single wires (so at least there was electricity) but they were dull and flickering, barely able to light the way. The air was damp and there was a faint smell of sewage.
Scarlett noticed an oil painting in a gilt frame. It showed a crucifixion scene, but the colours were faded, the canvas torn. An antique cabinet with two iron candlesticks stood beneath it, one door open and papers scattered on the floor. The three of them turned a corner and for the first time she was able to see outside. A series of arches led onto a terrace with a garden beyond. Scarlett stopped dead. Her worst fears had been realized. She knew now that she definitely wasn’t in England.
The garden was covered in snow. There were trees with no leaves, their branches heavy with the stuff. The ground was also buried and, in the distance, barely visible in the darkness, she could see white-topped mountains. There were no other buildings, no lights showing anywhere. The monastery was in some sort of wilderness – but how had she got here? Had she been knocked out and put on a plane? Scarlett searched back in her memory but there was nothing there… nothing to indicate a journey, leaving England or arriving anywhere else. Then one of the monks jabbed her in the back and she was forced to start moving again.
They came to a hallway, lit by a huge chandelier, not electric but jammed with rows of candles, at least a hundred of them, the wax dripping slowly down and congealing into a series of growths that reminded Scarlett of the sort of shapes she had once seen in a cave. Some of it had splattered onto a round table beneath. An empty bottle lay on its side along with dirty plates and glasses, mouldering pieces of bread. There had been a dinner here – days, maybe weeks before. There were no rats or cockroaches. It was too cold.
Several doors led out of the hallway. The two monks led her to the nearest of them. One of them opened it. The other pushed her inside. He had hurt her and Scarlett spun round and swore at him. The monk just smiled and backed away. The other man went with him. The door closed.
She turned back and examined her new surroundings. This was the only half-way comfortable room she had seen so far. It was furnished with a rug on the floor, two armchairs, bookshelves and a desk. It was warmer too. A coal fire was burning in a grate and although the flames were low she could feel the heat it was giving out and smell it in the air. More paintings hung on the walls, also with religious subjects. There was a window, but it had become too dark to see outside.
A man was sitting behind the desk. He also wore a habit, but his was black. So far he had said nothing but his eyes were fixed on Scarlett and, with an uneasy feeling, she walked over to him. He was the oldest man she had seen – at least twenty years older than the others, with the same bald head and sunken eyes. There were tufts of white hair around his ears and he had thick white eyebrows that could have been glued in place. His nose was long and too thin for his face. His fingers, spread out across the surface of the desk, were the same. He was watching Scarlett intensely, and as she drew closer she saw that there was a growth – a sty – sitting on one of his eyes. The whole socket was red and dripping. It was as if, like the rest of the building, he was rotting away. Scarlett shuddered and felt sick.
The man still hadn’t spoken. Scarlett drew level with him so that the desk was between them. Despite everything, she had decided that she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? Why have you brought me here?”
His eyes widened in surprise. At least, one of them did. The diseased eye had long since lost any movement. “You are English?” he said.
Scarlett was taken by surprise. She hadn’t expected him to speak her language. “Yes,” she said.
“Please. Sit down…” He gestured at one of the chairs. “Would you like a hot drink? Some tea should be arriving soon.”
Scarlett shook her head. “I don’t want any tea,” she snapped. “I want to go back where I came from. Why are you keeping me here?”
“I asked you to sit down,” the monk said. “I would suggest that you do as you are told.”
He hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t even sound threatening. But somehow Scarlett knew it would be a mistake to disobey him. She could see it in his eyes. The pupils were black and dead and slightly unfocused. They were the sort of eyes that might belong to someone who was mad.
She sat down.
