The opportunity arrived sooner than she had intended. It seemed like the middle of the night when Duval stormed in without knocking. The light blinded her for a few seconds and, as usual, she had no idea of night and day unless he told her. It was disorienting, as was being woken up so abruptly.
“Get out,” he ordered. “Get out, now.”
“I can go? Leave?” she asked groggily.
“You can leave your room and go to the corridor. The cellar door is double locked, so there’s no point in trying to get out again. Stay out there while I search your room.”
He seemed to go berserk as he threw her blankets on the floor and searched through her books. He removed her notebooks, then looked in every little cranny of the heater and wash-basin, and under her portable toilet.
Now fully awake and thoroughly alarmed, she asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? What are you looking for? I haven’t done anything. I haven’t got anything.”
His unshaven face was flushed with anger. “Shut up. Shut up! Don’t make me any angrier than I am.”
Petrified, she kept quiet, and retreated shivering to the end of the corridor near the large crucifix.
“Aha! Your little pigeonhole,” he said with an exaggerated note of triumph. Taking out a penknife, he edged the letters out of the air vent. With the notebook in his hand and her letters in his pocket, he walked out into the corridor.
“Get back in there,” he barked. “I suspected you were keeping a diary.”
He locked the door and turned off the light. It remained dark for an hour, then twelve hours and then, so she guessed, for twenty-four hours. She had a water bottle and the scraps of food she had stored, so she did not feel hungry for the first day.
He’s taking a long time reading my few notes and letters, she thought. Has he gone away?
Then, after what she estimated were two days, she wondered whether he had deserted her as he had deserted Denise-just leaving her to rot. It couldn’t be, not after all her stratagems of appeasement.
The heater had run out of paraffin, and the room temperature moved slowly towards zero. Putting on the cardigan he had allowed her, she wrapped the blankets tightly around herself.
She tried to think, despite the cold. “Thank God, I destroyed my original letters,” she told herself. “Those new ones should satisfy him.”
She wondered whether she had been plausible, because lying didn’t come naturally to her. She was pleased that she had taken precautions, but would he believe them? She had to be extra attentive to each nuance of his every mood in future.
She forced herself to relive good memories from the past: she was surprised how often Mrs. Violet Jenkins, from Wales but an inspiring teacher of English, surfaced in her catalogue of heroes. Schooldays hadn’t seemed so good at the time, but in retrospect Mrs. Jenkins had been very kind, very encouraging. She would be surprised to learn that her star pupil was reading the English mystics, and occasionally Gerard Manley Hopkins for light relief. The Cloud of Unknowing would certainly impress her, if only she could be told about it. If only. Marda’s thoughts involuntarily turned to school meals. They didn’t seem worth eating then, but her hunger pangs transformed them into bacchanalian feasts.
She began to pray, and surprised herself by quoting word perfectly from some of the prayers she had been taught by the monster upstairs. She questioned her sanity for the umpteenth time that day, or was it night? The black hole of timelessness was sucking her into madness. Finally, she drifted off into a nightmare in which she was transformed into a slave in some far-off time. She was chained in a medieval kitchen, forced to scrub and clean pots in a dungeon. She was beaten, but at least she encountered different tormentors; one or two even exchanged kind words and gave her scraps of food…
A sound came as if from a long, long tunnel, and she jumped when she realised it was a knock. On her door. A knock. That was a good sign.
The light went on and she managed to say, “Come in.”
He came in, trying, she thought, not to look in the slightest bit sheepish.
“Excuse my intrusion,” he said politely. “I don’t like reading other people’s private things, but I had to know. Were you telling the truth in your letters?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you write them?”
“I had to keep some-even imaginary-contact with the outside world.”
He snorted slightly.
“Are you hungry?” He said this almost tenderly.
“Yes, I’m starving. And it’s really cold in here.”
He turned his back to walk out and then spun around on his heels. He looked at her without speaking for a few seconds, seeming to take in the whole room, her whole subterranean existence. Finally, he said, “It’s Christmas Eve, so I wondered whether you would like a special meal. I have cooked a turkey. I don’t eat meat, but it seems right to offer you some on this eve of the feast.”
Marda thought: that’s as close as he is going to get to offering me an apology. “Oh, thank you,” she said appreciatively. “I’d like to help you. I’m not a bad cook, you know. I could help with the trimmings.”
Smiling, he said, “I can prepare it all myself, but thank you. I will lay out the table…upstairs…in the warm. I don’t expect to have any callers this late. I rarely have callers at all, especially on Christmas Eve. I will ask you to put on your handcuffs again, just as a precaution.”
Marda was ecstatic at the thought of leaving the cellar, even for a short time. “If you would like to get yourself ready, I will come back for you in about an hour…with some heating oil.”
Her excitement was genuine. She beamed when she said, “I don’t really have much to change into. And is there any chance of having my-first-bath?”
“Your habit will do fine…and I will think about the bath,” he added grudgingly. He locked the door and left the light on.
When he came back she had combed her hair and washed as best she could. She looked at her bitten nails, but there was nothing she could do about them. She had never bitten them before. He had refused to give her make-up, but the soap was fragrant. Duval himself seemed to be a bit more spruce than normal, she thought.
Duval was making an effort, especially since he had noticed that he was starting to let himself go a bit-not shaving regularly, wearing the same stained shirt for two days.
After leading her along the corridor with both her hands cuffed together, he helped her up the stairs and through the thick wooden door of the cellar. The flat trapdoor was heavy, so he climbed first and held it open.
The kitchen exploded into her consciousness. Everyday objects such as a bottle of milk, a loaf of Hovis and pots and pans were miracles, wonderful reminders of real life, heaven after the gloom. She marvelled at the tiles, the big enamel teapot and the red-checked cloth covering a tray. This was life, life, life. Light, colour, good smells, comforts, food, but-above all-light. She wanted to cry, laugh, sing, dance, shout, all at the same time, but controlling herself, aware he was watching her every movement, she merely indulged in the unbridled pleasure of staring at all the amazing artefacts of a living kitchen.
She noticed that he had carefully laid out two places on a large pine kitchen table. The bottle of dry French wine made her almost scream with joy.
To add to her pleasure, Duval let Bobby in from an inside door. The dog leapt up at Marda and she patted him furiously.
The priest seemed pleased with himself, but still very cautious. He said, “I hope you will excuse our eating in the kitchen. It is the most secure room on the ground floor. And, if you don’t mind, I will have to handcuff one of your hands to the table.”
She didn’t know whether she should push her luck. “Michael, it’s Christmas Eve and I take it the other doors are locked. Please let me enjoy just one meal and let me eat properly. Please let’s have a civilised meal together.”
He smiled with a slight frown as if to say I half-believe you.
“One move that I don’t like and I will return you to the cellar. If you even think of trying to escape…”
“Michael, I want to have a meal with you. It’s Christmas.”
“If what your letters say is true, then I might believe you. What if you are trying to bluff me? And why did you write to Christine?”
She started fiddling with the end of the tablecloth, but she knew she had to maintain eye contact: “Michael, those letters were like my diary, my lifeline to the outside world. I needed to talk to my friends-including Christine. She has become like a friend. They were just meant for me, though. Would I lie to myself?”
After he had undone her handcuffs, he smiled again, in his lopsided way, and said, “Let’s not argue tonight. Please sit down, Marda. May I pour you some wine?”
Except for the corn spirit, she had not tasted alcohol for nearly three months. “You bet,” she said eagerly.
He pulled out for her a real chair and she actually sat at a proper table; and, in warmth and light, this was paradise for Marda. She watched him pour the wine into a crystal glass and place it in front of her. She stopped herself for all of a minute, and then drank the whole glass in one gulp.
“’Scuse my manners, but I needed that.” The unaccustomed taste made her hiccup slightly.
Sitting down opposite her, he poured himself a glass which he sipped deliberately. Savouring his wine, with no mock pretension he said, “This is from Bordeaux; it’s a good year.”
“It’s lovely, Michael, thank you. I’ve spent some time there, as you know, working with wines, so I appreciate your thoughtfulness in getting a Bordeaux. Thank you so much.”
“Since you are so appreciative, I have decided to allow you a bath, a quick one. I don’t want to spend hours on guard outside the door. I shall give you ten minutes. Do you agree?”
A look of unadulterated delight transfixed Marda’s face. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes!” she said delightedly. “Now?”
“Yes. The window is firmly shuttered from the outside so there is no point in trying to get out. The water is hot, and there is a spare towel on the chair.”
He unlocked the kitchen door and, holding her firmly by the arm, led her along a gloomy passageway next to the kitchen. He pushed her gently ahead into a darkened room, switching on the light before she could become anxious.
“Help yourself,” he said expansively. “Remember, though, I will be outside the door, in case you try any funny business. There’s no lock inside, but I promise I shall not disturb you, so long as you are not more than ten minutes. Fair enough?”
She nodded, her eyes wide with anticipation.
Duval closed the door, leaving her alone in the most spartan bathroom she had ever seen. A forty-watt bulb illuminated the white enamel sink, bath and toilet, all scrupulously clean. Alongside the bath stood a simple wooden chair, painted brown. An old heavy-duty wooden towel rail had been treated to white paint, but long ago. There was nothing else, except a threadbare towel, soap and toilet paper. She had hoped there would be a mirror.
The next ten minutes passed in a blur of ecstasy: the luxury of a real toilet, while she ran the bath, then the bliss of deep, hot water enveloping her body, the glide of the soap caressing her limbs, the chance to end the itching in her scalp, her body tingling, revived by heat and cleanliness and the smell of Lux soap, this was almost the world she came from…
“You have one more minute, Marda.” His voice ruptured her reverie, and hate suffused her being; her first luxury in months, and again he was rationing her.
“Right, Michael, coming out in a moment.” She jumped on to the cold white-tiled floor, wiping herself furiously. Only half-dry, she threw on her habit in fear that he would enter the bathroom while she was naked. She wanted to be ready before he came in to enforce his time limit. And she needed to make some effort to clean the bath: she used the towel to wipe off the tidemark from water dirtied by her first proper wash in months.
He gave her two minutes, and knocked; she opened the door, her hair still dripping.
“Happy, now?” he enquired.
“Yes, ready to eat,” she said, as he loomed behind her, gesturing the way back to the kitchen.
They sat at the table, both nervous of initiating conversation, until Duval said, “Were you really so afraid of me in the beginning? I know that the herbal drug must have been very unpleasant, but I did my best to keep you happy. Am I such an ogre?”
She held out her glass and he refilled it.
“How can I answer that, Michael? As you said, let’s not argue. Let’s just enjoy the meal. I can’t wait.” Again, she patted the dog which was now asleep under the table.
Duval had heated some canned tomato soup, for which he apologised. To Marda it tasted superb.
As he prepared the food, he was careful not to turn his back on her. Whether he was being ultra-cautious or just nervous in her presence, she wasn’t sure.
When he served up the main course Marda tried hard not to gobble it down. He ate only the vegetables, while she revelled in the turkey.
“This is excellent, Michael,” she said with her mouth full and not caring. “I didn’t know you were such a good cook.”
“So that’s what you think of my cuisine over the last three months?”
They both laughed. He relaxed and, after the second glass of wine, so did Marda-a little.
“Hmm,” she said, after beginning the third glass. She never was much of a drinker, but this wine tasted so delicious. “Hmmm, lovely wine. So I have been here nearly three months; that’s a very long holiday from work.”
“Yes. And I hope you will stay a little longer, Christine.”
Marda went utterly cold and numbness overtook her brain.
“Marda, sorry. I suppose I have been working too hard on my book.” He did not appear in the least embarrassed by the confusion.
Marda managed to recover and changed tack by asking about the Christmas decorations in Guildford, and whether it was snowing. Did he know what films were showing locally? The day before she was taken by Duval she had read a review of Bonnie and Clyde. When asked whether he had seen the film, he told her that he never went to the cinema. Who was in the pantomime in the theatre? And she asked him to summarise what had happened internationally. He mentioned some political event in Africa, and she joked that it was perhaps warmer there than in Bolivia. Marda sucked in the fresh information as though it were the very tangible essence of freedom, vicarious freedom.
He had bought a small fruit trifle, a dessert she had always enjoyed. Over the cheese and biscuits she asked him about the football league, but he knew nothing. So she asked him what Harold Wilson had been up to. That was a little easier for him.
“I’m a bit of a newspaper fan, like to keep up with the news, sort of a family tradition,” she explained.
“Since you have constantly asked me for newspapers, as a special concession, I have been ordering various periodicals for you, but I have been examining them to see if they are a suitable complement to your instruction,” he said. “The Times may have some merit, but the music papers you mentioned are soaked in sin.”
“OK, I won’t ask about music, but would you tell me what’s been happening the world?”
Duval told her that Clement Attlee had died, and so had Che Guevara. He tried to respond to the concerns of a different generation when he realised that she was interested in the death of the charismatic guerrilla leader whose picture was pinned on the wall of nearly every college student’s room. Joan Baez, he told her, had been arrested during an anti-Vietnam war protest, and Charles de Gaulle had vetoed British entry into the Common Market. He seemed so knowledgeable that Marda quizzed him on his views on the new Europe.
Eventually she asked, “If you don’t normally read the newspapers and don’t own a TV, where do you get your information?”
“Mainly from the radio. The BBC keeps me in touch with the world.”
“Would you put the radio on?” she pleaded.
“Which station?” he replied without any demur, taking the dust cover off an old Dansette transistor radio.
“Can you find the new Radio 1? You know, the pop music station.” He didn’t, but he played with the dial.
“Oh, oh, it’s the Bee Gees. Please leave that station on. I love them.” The haunting strains of “Massachusetts” filled the kitchen.
The priest could not disguise a slight grimace. “Do you mind if I lower it?”
“No, but please leave it on.”
He lowered the volume slightly, then rummaged around in a kitchen cabinet. “Would you like some port?”
Marda was a bit giggly now.
“Yes, pleeeease.”
She swigged down the port. Her body, partly anaesthetised after so much pain and fear, craved more alcohol. “Excuse me being a little pig, but can I have some more please?” She held out the empty glass.
Marda was not emulating his archetype of the austere Christine, he thought, but his guest had endured a long preliminary penance. There had to be occasional rewards, even of meat and wine, before she could make her own decision to renounce such indulgences. And, after all, it was Christmas, a traditional time for feasting.
So Duval, with no apparent reluctance, poured her a second glass of port. He had not touched his first.
“Have you got me a Christmas present then?” she said jokingly.
He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “As a matter of fact I have,” he said, barely concealing the sense of his own largesse.
She was about to say, “I hope it’s not a bleeding Bible,” but she wasn’t that drunk.
“I have bought you a dress. I hope it’s the right size.”
Marda pretended to look cross. “You’re not supposed to tell me because it spoils the surprise. Please let me see it.”
As he pulled a gift-wrapped package out of a drawer in the pine kitchen dresser, she practically seized it from his hands and ripped it open. At any other time she would have opened it very carefully to save the paper to use again.
“Oh Michael, it’s lovely,” she cooed. “Blue is my favourite colour. But I thought you wanted me to wear a religious habit.”
“I want you to have a choice. That’s my point. I don’t often wear my clerical garb here in the house. Tonight is an occasion where you could wear a dress so you can go downstairs and try it on if you like.”
“May I use your bathroom to change? I don’t want to spoil the lovely meal by going down…down there…not just yet.”
“If you want to, but I shall wait by the door, if you don’t mind,” he said a little warily.
Under escort, she went to the bathroom to change, emerging with her new dress on and the habit over her arm.
Once back in the kitchen, she deposited the stale clothing on a chair. Marda turned to him and asked expectantly, “How do you like it?”
His face indicated obvious pleasure.
Encouraged, she gave a modest impression of a model’s twirl, then stood next to him.
He reached out with his hand to brush her cheek, ever so gently and momentarily, and then turned red with embarrassment.
“Oh, you’ve gone all shy, Michael. I just wanted to show how pleased I am with your present. Come on, do you like it?”
He looked lost for words, but managed to say quietly, “You look ethereal.”
“That’s the first time you’ve paid me that kind of compliment. Why, thank you, kind sir.” Disbelievingly, Marda heard her own words echoing in the room; suddenly a flash from Gone With The Wind intruded upon her mind: she was imitating Scarlett, and Rhett had not been fooled, had he? She knew she was no actress, but she was warm, clean, well-fed and rather tipsy. There might not be a better time. She understood that she was about to take the biggest risk of her short life. He was an apparently celibate priest who was also a deranged killer. Not an ideal choice. She would pretend, she would try to be the world’s greatest actress, to find a chance to escape, or to immobilise him, perhaps even to kill him. She was utterly desperate to seize what might be her only opportunity.
She sat on his lap.
He froze.
“Don’t, Michael,” she said almost crossly. “I won’t hurt you. Don’t be silly.”
Taking hold of his hands, she put them around her waist. Hesitantly he conceded, although he held her limply.
Marda heard herself say, “I know I don’t look very sexy in these boots and socks, but it’s a nice dress and-hey-it makes me feel like a woman again. And I don’t have any make-up on. Treat me like a woman, Michael, not a student. Don’t freeze me out.”
She pecked him lightly on the cheek, almost recoiling as the stubble rippled along her lips, but he did relax a little. She willed herself to recall her lover in France, trying to picture every fine feature of his face, then, as she squirmed a little on Duval’s lap, her dress rode up along her thighs.
“Don’t you find me attractive?” she asked provocatively. “You always avoid touching me.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know I’ve got a bit skinny and pale, but has being locked up made me so ugly? I haven’t looked in a mirror since I came here. Look at me, don’t you find me attractive?”
“Of course I do,” he said, almost stuttering.
“Please open your eyes. Am I so frightening?”
The traditional wood stove in the kitchen was pumping out heat. Marda, returning to her own seat, took off her shoes and socks, then skipped around on the bare linoleum, humming to herself. The drink had fortified her, while he seemed relaxed, trusting almost, she thought, and this might be her last chance. She swallowed hard and, as she twirled around, she pulled off her dress while grabbing a tea towel to cover her breasts.
“Look at me. Don’t you want me? Isn’t this what you really wanted me to be?”
She flicked the towel into the air, leaving herself naked except for her pants.
“Do you want to see me naked? Is that what you want? Then I’ll do it for you. Here.”
She tugged off her pants, covering herself with her hands as she walked towards him.
Panic swept his face, he stood up and retreated until his back was pressed against the main kitchen door.
She followed him, standing on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck, and whispered, “You can hold me if you like. Do what you like with me…as long as you don’t hurt me. Take me to your bedroom now if you want to. Anywhere, but not down there in the coal-hole.”
As she pressed her naked body against him, he uttered a half-suppressed croak.
“Go on, kiss me if you want,” she said aggressively.
Reluctantly, almost like an automaton, he leaned forward to kiss her on the lips lightly as she squeezed against him.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the large knife he had used to carve the turkey, and she desperately tried to estimate whether she could reach it. Marda pressed hard against him to move him towards the sideboard where the knife lay, tantalisingly close. She edged him towards it, keeping his back to the knife. Pressed against him, she felt the surprising roughness of his tweed jacket against her naked breasts.
She was sure he was not aware of the knife. Marda steeled herself to kill, but her most pressing fear was whether she could be quick enough to reach the knife before he reacted. She prayed that he would keep his eyes shut.
“Stop. Stop. Don’t kiss me any more, Christine,” he barked in a pained, almost strangled voice. He seized her hand and, with surprising strength, dragged her towards the trapdoor. “You’re the Whore of Babylon. The scarlet-coloured beast. Go to the pit where you belong.”
“No, please, please don’t put me back. Please,” she begged. “I’ll put my clothes on. No!” she shouted at the top of her voice. “Michael. Don’t.”
The last thing she heard on the radio as the trapdoor closed was the current hit song by the Spencer Davis Trio: “Somebody help me, yeah. Won’t somebody tell me what I’ve done wrong?”