Isolation - a heart-stopping thriller, Shutter Island meets Memento

by Neil Randall

  “And as you can see” – she gestured right and left – “the pavements are absolutely littered with dog mess, one lump after the other. It’s almost impossible to avoid. It’s like living on a farm or in some third world shanty town.”

  I looked in the direction her flailing arms were indicating, but it was too dark to make anything out.

  “And while I appreciate that you are not personally responsible for this debacle, I’m sure you’ll agree that something has to be done. If not, an elderly resident will slip and break their neck.”

  I told her that I fully understood, that the council had raised funds to install bins for the specific deposit of dog mess–dog bins–and that a poster campaign encouraging dog owners to buy a poop-scoop to clean after their animals was at the design stage.

  “Poop-scoop? I can’t see that catching on. People around here have no consideration. And besides, weren’t you supposed to take some photographs?” She pointed to the camera bag hanging from my shoulder.

  “Erm, yes I was, but I think it may well be too dark to—”

  “Never mind, never mind.” She turned on her heels. “I’ve got some in the house. Pictures you can present to your superiors first thing tomorrow morning, showing exactly how bad things have got. Follow me.”

  I followed her up the garden path and into the house, into a high-ceilinged hallway.

  “Close the front door, will you?” she shouted from the depths of the house, having quickly disappeared.

  I pushed the door to and waited, listening out for any sounds, but there were none. I shuffled forward, closer to the foot of the staircase, angling my head down the hallway, seeing that the door leading down to what was presumably a basement was open – which struck me as odd, but not in any significant way, not yet.

  Heels clicked against the flooring; Mrs Forbes-Powers walked back down the hallway.

  “Here.” She handed me a set of Polaroid photographs, each picture featuring a close-up shot of a dog turd, some thick and coiled, others small and insignificant, or no more than splotches of runny brown matter spattered against a pavement. But none had any real context, in the sense of a landmark or road name in the background, so it was impossible to identify the location.

  “Well? Pretty compelling evidence, eh?”

  “Erm, yes. Only it’s hard to tell exactly where these pictures have been taken. They’re all incredibly close to the offending—”

  “What are you talking about? Here.” She snatched the photographs from my hand, and gestured for me to step forward, closer to the light. “What about this one?”

  I leaned forward to get a better look at the photograph – but it was the same as the others.

  “Like I said: it would’ve been better if you’d have taken a step back, and included a point of local reference. That way, we’d have known exactly where the picture had been taken.”

  “Outrageous!” she cried. “I won’t stand for it. Always making bloody excuses, you lot.”

  “It’s no problem. I can easily call back tomorrow, first thing in the morning, and take some pictures then, to present to the Deputy-Director.”

  “The only thing you’ll be doing tomorrow, you pathetic little grub, is nursing a sore head.”

  “What?”

  Completely unexpectedly, with both hands, and with far more force than she seemed to possess, Mrs Forbes-Powers pushed me in the chest, pushed me backwards, through the open door, sending me tumbling down a set of concrete steps.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There you go, old chap,” I heard a well-spoken young man say, as he very carefully eased me up into a sitting position. “You certainly took one hell of tumble there, what? But, bar the odd cut and bruise, I don’t think you’ve done any serious damage.”

  “Where – Where I am?” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “Well, to put it bluntly: you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

  “What?”

  “Look. Let’s get you sat in a chair before we discuss your current predicament. Okay? Sound like a plan?”

  Once seated, it still took a while before my eyes could focus properly, to take everything in, to assimilate my new surroundings: a sprawling basement, converted into a domestic living space. Open-plan, it was split into different sections, different rooms, the point of delineation marked by a change in furniture. The front room: a three-piece suit, an elegant walnut coffee table, a thick, expensive-looking oriental rug, a stuffed crocodile on top of it. To the right, a small dining table and two chairs, a shaded standing lamp which provided the only light. In the far corner, two single beds, one made-up, if the sheets were slightly crumpled, the other, stripped, with blankets piled neatly upon the mattress. Parallel was a white-tiled wet room, with shower, sink and toilet. To the left, a table tennis table, only half unfolded, as if a solo player had been getting in some practise, knocking a ball up against the inverted section. Hanging directly above the table was a piece of artwork that looked eerily familiar. Again I rubbed my eyes, in an attempt to refocus, not quite believing what I was looking at: a horned owl, the exact same symbol I’d seen in the photograph taken at the first murder scene.

  “What’s that on the wall?” I pointed.

  “Oh, just an old African tribal symbol – not sure what it means. Although Mater, who spent the first twenty-odd years of her life out in Rhodesia, did tell me once. Maybe something to do with death or revenge, not completely sure. Here.” He handed me a glass of water. “Drink this.”

  As I gulped back the water I was, for the first time, able to look my companion over. Tall, wiry, with lively blue eyes, a very neat side-parting to his shiny auburn hair, clean-shaven if slightly rosy cheeks, he wore a silk cravat, tucked into a very smart button-down shirt, which was, in turn, tucked into a pair of pressed, well-cut, almost hipster-style trousers, and shiny slip-on leather shoes with tassels.

  “Better?” He took the empty glass from my hand.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I wiped my sleeve across my chin. “So, what is this place? Some sort of study, a writer’s underground hideaway or artist’s studio?”

  “No.” A wry, even anxious smile broke out across his face. “It’s a prison.”

  “Prison? What do you mean?”

  “Just that, I’m afraid, old boy. Mater up there has completely lost the plot. Keeps me hidden away here, under lock and key. I knew I shouldn’t have dropped out of Cambridge like that, but I didn’t think it was going to upset her this much.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I wish I was,” he said. “When I announced my plans – and to be completely truthful, I had made an awful mess of things, running up huge debts – Mater went berserk, couldn’t face the embarrassment of telling her friends that I was a failure. Only child, see, bit of a prodigy, bit of a bookworm, bit of a wordsmith. Had high hopes for me did Mater, especially when she railroaded me into reading law. That’s where the money’s at, she said. With our family connections, you’ll be a High Court judge one day. Or words to that effect.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Pretty much what just happened to you, old boy. She insisted I visit for a chat about the future, ushered me into the hall, and pushed me down the cellar steps.”

  “When? How long ago?”

  “Can’t say for certain, but it must be getting on for two, maybe three years now.”

  “Three years!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But – But the police know I’m here. They’ll come and rescues me – rescue us!”

  “Been and gone, my good man, been and gone. Thought they had Mater for a moment, caught her on the hop. Yes. She certainly wasn’t expecting the boys in blue to be hammering on the door all of forty minutes after pushing you down those steps. But she soon regained her composure, played her meek old widow bit to a tee, told them you’d stopped by, but would return tomorrow because it was too dark to take any photographs.”

  This was all too much to take in.

  “I’m Gideon, b
y the way.” He offered me his hand. “And you’re Nigel, I believe. Glad to make your acquaintance. Now, if you’re up to it, I can show you around the place… That’s the boudoir, as it were.” He pointed to the beds I’d already seen. “Bathroom, games rooms. And, most important of all, over there is the dumb waiter, access straight up to the kitchen. In about, erm” – he checked his wristwatch – “five minutes, Mater should send down an aperitif, a bloody strong vodka martini, if we’re lucky. Approximately half an hour after that, dinner is served.”

  “Oh, so she at least provides you with some kind of sustenance, then?”

  “More than just sustenance, Nigel.” Gideon rubbed his hands together. “The woman is an amazing chef, prides herself on keeping a good table. To be perfectly honest with you, the meals are the only things that have kept me relatively sane.”

  “But why would she do this to you, her only son? Surely it can’t just be because you dropped out of university.”

  “Well, maybe it was a straw to a camel’s back type of scenario. Watching Pater die of pancreatic cancer wasn’t easy for her. After that, I think she invested all her hopes in me – which was, unfortunately, too great a burden of expectation to bear. Not got much backbone, you see, not much mortar between the bricks, been seeing therapists since I was a teenager.”

  “I understand. Being an only child can be a struggle. But haven’t you ever tried to escape?”

  “Of course I have. But not for a while now. The place is pretty much impenetrable, soundproofed. I think the former owner used it as some kind of recording studio. We can hear, albeit faintly, what’s going on upstairs, but no one can hear us down here. Put simply: we’re trapped, helpless. Unless Mater comes to her senses, there really is no way out.”

  The dumb waiter rattled then dinged.

  “Ah, excellent, drinks.” Gideon rushed over and opened the hatch. “Oh yes!” He swung round with a large cocktail shaker and two long-stemmed glasses on a silver tray. “Looks like she’s pulled out all the stops tonight. I bet there’s enough in here for two stiff drinks apiece. Come on. Let’s sit at the table.”

  Very carefully, Gideon poured out the drinks, handing me one of the elegant glasses.

  “Chin-chin, Nigel, your good health.”

  “Yes, cheers.” I took a sip of martini, so strong I couldn’t help but cough. “Phew! That’s, erm…certainly got a kick to it.”

  “Delicious, right on the money. Yes. A couple of these will make you talk about your relations all right.”

  I put my glass on the table. “Look, Gideon, I really need to get out of here. My life at the moment is extremely complicated. Your mother doesn’t know what she’s done, who she’s really kidnapped. Lives could literally be at risk if I don’t escape.”

  “I understand, old chap, but I don’t want to sit here and fill you with false hope.”

  “But I’m helping the police investigate a triple murder. The main suspect is an old acquaintance of mine, so to the victims. My girlfriend is involved now. I—”

  “Triple murder, hey? How exciting? What exactly have you got yourself mixed up in, then, old chap?”

  As if the enormity of what had happened this evening had only just sunk in, I told him the whole story, in much the same way I’d told the police, omitting not a single detail.

  “And this Jeffrey what-his-name has not been seen since the first murder? Hmm…well, not to sound flippant, but aren’t you in the safest place, then? I mean, clearly he’ll come after you, sooner rather than later, and would have to have supernatural powers to find you down here, what?”

  “That’s not the point. I need to find out what that owl symbol really means. I need to find out what has happened to Jeffrey and Michelle. More than anything, I need to make sure Liz is all right, that she hasn’t got caught up in all of this.”

  “Understood,” said Gideon. “Only I’m not sure how sympathetic Mater is going to be.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Pass the vino, will you?” Gideon placed a knife and fork up against his empty starter plate. “Exemplary stuff – crisp, clean on the palate, a real triumph.” He poured himself another glass. “So, back in the real world, are you much of a wine man?”

  “Not really,” I said, finding it hard, despite Gideon’s loquacity, to feel anything other than thoroughly depressed about my predicament. “In fact, I’m not much of a drinker, full-stop. If I do pop into a pub, I’m more likely to have a pint of bitter.”

  “Oh, I see, that’s interesting. I once had—” The dumb waiter clattered and dinged again, cutting him short. “Ooh, excellent, the main course.” Rubbing his hands together, he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “The suspense, the suspense,” he said over his shoulder, walking across the room. “Mater never tells me what’s on the menu, you see.”

  I watched him slide down the hatch, saw the mincing way he wiggled his hips and heard the little squeal of accompanying delight.

  “Believe me. You’re not going to be disappointed, old boy.” He walked back over to the table with two enormous pieces of fish on two plates. “She really has pulled out all the stops – Turbot, king of the bloody sea!”

  Over the main course and dessert, Gideon told me some disjointed details about his life, the books he’d read as a boy (“Hardy was my man. Jude, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd”), the gap year he’d spent travelling with friends (“was supposed to get that wanderlust out of the system, so I’d be ready to knuckle down at Cambridge, but it only gave me a taste for the high bohemian life”), his brief yet intense love affair with a pretty undergraduate from Yorkshire (“beautiful girl, inside and out, very serious, studious, though, had her whole life mapped out in advance. Whereas I…Ha! Funny how time passes, and you realise that your one chance at true happiness has already passed you by”), and how hard his father’s death had hit him (“that bastard disease went through the poor old boy like a knife through butter, three months from diagnosis to a hole in the ground, didn’t give the family a chance to really prepare”.)

  “I understand – losing someone close is never easy.”

  He looked across at me with glazy yet appreciative eyes, picked up his glass and knocked back the last of his cognac.

  “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said, hoping he was sober enough to give me a sensible answer. “How do you live down here, all on your own? And how come you haven’t put on any weight, eating all these rich, calorific foods, night after night?”

  “Oh, I have a system.” He waved my words away. “I’ll tell you all about it in due course.”

  “But what do you do all day? Have you got books stashed away somewhere? A television? A radio?”

  “No books, I’m afraid, although there’s plenty of paper and pens. Think Mater is keen on me becoming a novelist, penning a wonderful book – nothing would impress her chums at the Rotary Club more than knowing I’m an esteemed literary man (hiccup). And no idiot box or wireless, either. Mater won’t allow it.”

  Two firm knocks sounded against the door.

  “What’s that?” I swung round. “Is she letting us out?”

  “No, no. Mater is going to give us a good night story, that’s all. Come. Let’s go and sit by the door.”

  As if it was the most natural thing in the world, Gideon got up, walked over to the door, and sat cross-legged in front of it, like a child at playschool. Bizarre as this was, I found myself doing likewise, crouching down beside him.

  “Good evening, Mater. On behalf of us both, I’d just like to thank you for a truly wonderful meal. The turbot was out of this world, it really was.”

  “Good,” she said from behind the door. “Are you ready for your story now?”

  “Mrs Forbes-Powers,” I cried, desperate to tell her about everything that was going on in my life, desperate to make her see sense, “please, you’ve got to listen to me. At present, I’m involved in a high profile murder investigation, am the only concrete link be
tween two horrific killings. You might’ve seen them on the television news. I—”

  “Nigel, please!” Gideon slapped both hands against his thighs. “You can’t disrupt story time like this. It’s not cricket. It’s not done.”

  “It’s all right, Gideon,” said Mrs Forbes-Powers. “Mr Barrowman has only just joined us; it’s his first day. He doesn’t understand the etiquette yet. Besides, if his obtuse telephone manner, broken promises, and crass unprofessionalism are anything go by, I wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.” She clicked her tongue. “High profile murder case, two horrific killings – my foot!”

  I felt like protesting, repeating everything I’d just said, but something held me back – probably a strong inkling that my words would be roundly ignored.

  “Now, if you’re sitting comfortably, I will tell you a very dark and troubling story, a true story about my life and time in Rhodesia. Be warned, Gideon. You will hear things about your mother that you may find very disturbing.”

  Mrs Forbes-Powers’ Story

  To grow up in a land so obviously foreign in every way gives a child a curious sense of displacement. For all its beauty and charm, breathtaking vistas and fantastical wildlife, Rhodesia never once felt like home. In many ways, from my fourth or fifth birthday onwards, I saw myself as an intruder, an unwelcome guest. And despite the deference the local tribesmen displayed towards myself and my family, I couldn’t help but feel a real sense of resentment amongst them, that our presence here was not at all welcome.

  We lived on a large farmstead, consisting of thousands of acres of land, sprawling out over the wild African plains. Oft times we would drive for hours on end, and still get nowhere near to our land boundaries. At the time, my father was in partnership with his brother-in-law, Humphrey Montfort, the competent if somewhat wayward husband of my Aunt Eliza. They, like my parents, were mother and father to an only child, a slightly slow, mentally deficient boy, my cousin and playmate, Charles. A rich fertile land, possessed of huge mineral wealth, our families combined to appropriate great fortunes from the Rhodesian earth. Within a generation, we were very rich people indeed.