It was around seven on that chill early October evening when the bus dropped Marda Stewart at the top of Upper Street, and as she walked down Rectory Lane it was almost dark. Gathering the top of her anorak around her neck to ward off the cold, she felt pleased with herself: she had visited a number of car showrooms in Guildford, having saved enough money to buy a new Mini, but a basic Mini rather than the flash Cooper which her friend Jenny’s father could easily afford to buy for his spoiled daughter. Marda had decided on a bright red one, although she hadn’t signed the papers yet. She would take Jenny with her in a few days just to confirm that she had made the right choice. Marda had no mechanical bent at all; she had simply fallen in love with the sparkling little machine. She surprised herself by starting to hum “Yellow Submarine.” Why not? Life was good…except for her brother. The new car had temporarily displaced bitter thoughts of Mark, while the pleasant memories of her former lover in France had almost totally slipped from her conscious mind.
Near the ford at the bottom of the lane she encountered Bobby, who bounced up to her in friendly recognition. She patted his head and carried on down the lane with the collie skipping around her feet.
On the other side of the small ford, by the faint light of a cottage window, she could see a green Morris estate with the back doors open. She could just make out a person whom she assumed was the dog’s owner leaning over into the back of the car. It was difficult to be sure because the stream was surrounded by large trees and bushes, and the footbridge was indistinct in the darkness.
“Hello. Is that you…Michael? I found your dog at the top of the lane.”
From the interior of the car came Duval’s muffled voice: “Can you hold him a minute? I’m looking for his lead. He disappeared on our walk a while ago. Chasing rabbits…I have been out in the car looking for him…Where is that lead?”
Marda was now standing behind the Morris bending over to hold Bobby’s collar, while the dog busied himself with licking her hand. She did not see Duval check all around to ensure that nobody else was in the secluded area. He would take her. He had the chloroform ready.
“What are you doing in there, Michael?” Her voice was so kind, so friendly, so trusting…
The first thing she would recognise was the force used to clamp the cloth around her mouth and an awful sickly chemical smell. For two or three seconds she would be too shocked to do anything except try to scream, but she would not be able to. Then she would try to break free, but he would hold her firmly around her waist. Nothingness would envelop her.
He put the bottle back in the cardboard box.
“I can’t find the lead,” he said, rummaging around in the back of car, and trying to appear slightly helpless.
“No need,” said Marda smiling, “Bobby seems quite happy to stay with me.”
Duval swivelled around and smiled in turn at his prey.
They talked about Bobby for a few minutes and Marda mentioned a forthcoming trip to France, to which she was looking forward. She then risked a personal question.
“May I ask what you do? I thought that perhaps you worked professionally with animals,” she said tentatively.
“I am a priest,” Duval replied. He thought she seemed a little surprised. “I don’t often wear my dog collar when I am off duty.”
“Where’s your church?” asked Marda, trying to recover.
“In Guildford, quite close to St. Mary’s, the old Saxon church near the castle.”
“I like churches,” said Marda. “In fact, occasionally I pop into St. Mary’s. I love the ancient smell, the feeling of so much history.”
“You are very welcome to visit mine, although it’s not nearly as old. I’ll jot down the address,” he said, rifling around in his jacket for a pen and paper. “I have what I call ‘surgery hours,’ when my parishioners call in for tea and sympathy. I usually try to offer them some cake as well as the opportunity for confession.” A small, slightly dry chuckle accompanied this remark.
Marda laughed ruefully. “I could certainly do with a sympathetic ear from someone. I’ve had a terrible row with my brother. I rarely see him, but when I do we always manage to argue… Anyway, I am sure you hear enough of family troubles. You don’t need to hear mine. Sorry I mentioned it. I feel rather embarrassed, imposing on someone I hardly know. Terribly sorry,” she said, obviously flustered.
Duval put on his best priestly manner.
“That’s my job: to listen and to help. To all, whether they are Catholic or not.”
“I’m not a Catholic, although my mother is-was-but it’s nice to talk to you. You seem friendlier than most priests, although I don’t suppose I know that many.” She laughed a little too self-consciously, and Duval liked the girlishness of this grown woman.
“My surgery hours are usually between five and seven.”
“I may take you up on that.”
“Don’t come if you don’t want to. It must be your choice… We all have freedom of choice,” he added gently.
“Well, I’d better get on,” said Marda. “Thanks. I may call in to see you sometime. Bye.” She patted Bobby on the head and walked the short distance to her flat.
Duval was pleased with himself, glad that he had not taken her. It would have been too risky, too impulsive, here on his home ground. He had selected her, and he felt that she had chosen him. He was sure she would come eventually to him. A few days later they chatted briefly near the ford, and he repeated his invitation to visit the church. She said she would call in when she returned from France, which would not be for a few weeks.
The next evening a demurely dressed young woman, looking very unsure of herself, walked into Duval’s church. She gazed up at an elaborate chandelier and then at the high wooden supports of the ceiling; as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she caught a glimpse of a black surplice bustling from a passage near the side of the altar. It was Duval and he greeted her warmly.
“You look so different dressed as a priest,” Marda said shyly. “It makes it so formal, rather than chatting to an old…well, a new friend.”
Duval considered whether he should shake her hand, but decided against it. “Welcome, Marda,” he said, showing surprise but also genuine pleasure at her arrival. “I’m on duty now. So please come into the vestry and have a cup of tea. And there is some coconut cake as well.” He led her to a small office, full of old books. “Bit small and scruffy, I’m afraid, but most people find it cosy enough for a chat. I thought you were going to France.”
“I am, but I had a stinking letter from Mark, you know, the brother I mentioned to you, and, well, I wanted to clear my head before I went away.”
“Sugar?” said Duval.
“No thanks.”
“Please sit down. That chair is more comfortable. Now tell me about your brother…”
“Well, I feel awkward talking about it.”
When she started to pull out a blue packet of Gitanes cigarettes from her handbag, Duval noticed her long painted nails.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t smoke in church,” Marda said, looking flustered again. “I’m just rather nervous.”
“I don’t smoke in the actual church, but I sometimes smoke my pipe here in my office. Smoke if you want. Really. Use my ashtray.”
Duval disliked women smoking, but it was not the time to say that. Marda lit up the Gitane, sank back into her chair and sipped her tea.
“This tea tastes unusual…It’s interesting, though. What is it?”
“I have an interest in herbs,” said Duval, not looking at her. “It’s my own mix. Some conventional Assam with a few of my own little additions…You were talking about your brother.”
Marda put on a very diffident smile, with her chin down and her eyes up, as though she was a doe startled by a strange sound in the forest.
Duval waited for her to speak. When she did, the words tumbled out. “We’re not really a close family and I don’t feel I can talk about it with them. In fact, although my mother is a lapsed Catholic, my father is a staunch Anglican. He would have a blue fit if he knew I was here talking to a Catholic priest. I haven’t told a soul I’m here, not even Jenny-she’s my best friend in Guildford. Maybe it’s crazy, but I wanted to talk to someone professionally, if you like. It’s not religious, at all, so perhaps I shouldn’t really be here.”
“I’m glad you are,” said Duval. “Very glad.”
For ten or fifteen minutes the priest was told a tale of recent sibling rivalry, of two over-achievers close in age, with loving but distant parents. Duval listened carefully enough to offer the occasionally anodyne commiseration, but he was more intent on examining Marda’s potential for the tasks he would set her. It was enough to sit and let her pour her heart out.
Suddenly Marda dried up. “I feel such a fool, telling you all my problems; I’m sure you have lots to do…” And she stood up to leave.
Duval stood with her. “It’s good to talk. Confessions-or even informal chats like this-are often the first steps to resolving personal problems. Please call in again. If it helps, I am always ready to listen and provide whatever advice I can.”
He offered his hand, and she shook it warmly. The priest escorted her to the side entrance of the church, passing two old women bent under the weight of their years, praying in a small side chapel, too engrossed in worship to notice the striking young woman. It was dark when she left the church.
If she comes again, thought Duval, she has chosen. She has exercised her own free will. It is her choice.
Duval did not have to wait long. The next evening, after work, Marda rushed in from the rain to apologise for unburdening herself. This time the church was empty.
The priest led her into his room, and offered her tea again. She was very reluctant to stop, but he insisted. He calmed her by asking, “Did it help, opening yourself up a little? That’s all that matters; and, remember, it is my role in life to listen to people’s problems. Priests can sometimes be useful, you know.”
She drank her tea rapidly, trying to avoid any impression of imposing on this man whom she had so recently met.
“Michael…or should I call you ‘Father’ in church…?”
“Please call me ‘Michael,’ I insist.”
“Well, Michael, I do appreciate your listening and your advice, but I must be truthful, I’m not into formal religion at all…no offence meant, of course.” She laughed at her own clumsiness.
Michael laughed too. “None taken, I can assure you.”
Marda wanted to put her cup down, to indicate politely that she was about to leave. She tried to get up from her seat, but slumped back down. She spoke, but she found it hard to enunciate correctly. The priest stood and watched as Marda’s voice started to wind down to a quiet, slurring monotone. As her head slumped on to her chest and her empty cup and saucer fell to the floor and broke into pieces, Duval locked the door to his office.
When she awoke from her drugged sleep Marda was lying in complete darkness on what felt like a wooden bench.
Too groggy to explore her mind, let alone her new environment, she just turned to her side and was copiously sick. She lay back prone on the bench and opened and closed her eyes. It didn’t make any difference because it was completely black. She pinched herself to see if she was dreaming. For a moment she thought she was dead, until she heard herself croak: “Where the hell am I?”
Somehow that fragment of self-assertion made her feel a little better, although she had a pulsating headache. Her lips and mouth were bitter from a chemical taste and sour from the vomit. She desperately wanted to drink something. Anything. A part of her felt like falling asleep again, but her panic forced her to explore.
She stretched out her left hand to touch a cold stone wall to her side. Then she raised her right hand to just above her head and felt the same cold stone. She began to feel cold herself. What is this place? her mind screamed, terror welling up inside her. Some sort of burial vault in the church?
Her jacket had gone, so had her shoes. She tried to sit up, but the pain rushed to her head again and she lay back down. Slowly she felt her body with her hands, and realised that she was wearing just her bra and pants. For a second, indignation displaced some of the dread.
“The bastard,” she said aloud. “The bastard. He’s drugged me, locked me up somewhere in some cold dungeon or something…and he’s taken my clothes.” The thought suddenly took hold of her terrified mind that he could have raped her as well, and she began to sob uncontrollably. Then her common sense reasserted itself, and she realised that there was no bruising or pain between her legs. She would know if she had been violated.
“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 am going to talk to myself,” she said, although her confidence did not sound very real.
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 can hear me. You’re a bastard! Let me out of here,” she shouted.
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.