by Millie Vigor
‘I’m so sorry, Virginia. I couldn’t help being late, someone phoned in sick and Hazel made me stay and work. Are you all right?’
‘My head hurts.’
‘I’m not surprised; you fell against the wall. And I’m afraid the supper I brought home for you is on the floor. You must be hungry, would you like me to go out and get some more?’
‘No.’
‘But you must eat. Come, I’ll help you on to the bed.’ With his arms round her, Curtis lifted her and half-carried, half-walked her to her bed.
‘Will you be all right while I make some tea and scramble you an egg?’
A groan was her answer as she put her head upon her pillow. She watched Curtis go out of the cellar, heard him bolt the door behind him and the shuffle of his feet as he climbed the stairs. She had attacked him again, but so far he hadn’t lost his temper. Obviously the blow to her head had knocked her unconscious which must have worried him. If it had been worse, he would have had to take her to a doctor and he would have been found out. Despite her aching head, Ginny gave a satisfied little smile. Illness, real or imagined, could be used as another lever in getting out of the cellar and into the upper floors of the house. She would keep that in mind.
‘Virginia.’ Curtis had come back. He opened the cellar door, stood just inside the room but did not walk in. ‘It’s very late. I thought you should only have something light to eat so I wondered if you would like to come upstairs with me while I make you an omelette.’
‘Up the stairs?’
‘Yes. Come along.’
Curtis held out his hand and Ginny needed no second bidding. She got off her bed and followed him out of the cellar, up the stairs and into his kitchen.
‘Would you sit there?’ said Curtis. ‘Supper won’t be long. While you’re waiting you might like to look in that little box and see what I got for you.’
‘Do you mean this?’ Ginny picked up a small box that had been placed beside her place setting.
‘Yes. Open it.’
While Curtis busied himself with beating eggs and chopping chives, Ginny took the lid off the box and lifted out a silver link bracelet. One charm, a capital letter V, was already attached.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Curtis. ‘I thought you could add a charm for every book you write and have published.’
‘It’s a lovely idea, but you don’t have to do this. In fact, I don’t think I can accept it.’ Ginny laid the bracelet back in the box and closed it up. ‘Thank you, Curtis, but please don’t do it again.’
Curtis said nothing, went on seeing to the omelette. When it was ready, he turned it out of the pan on to a warm plate.
‘Eat it while it’s hot,’ he said.
He sat down and watched her while she ate. ‘I wish you would accept my gift. Take it as an apology for the worry I have caused you. I’m sorry I was so late. It must have been awful, not knowing where I was. It won’t happen again.’
‘I hope not,’ said Ginny. ‘But I’ll only accept the bracelet if you promise you won’t buy me anything more.’
‘That’s a promise,’ said Curtis.
‘Thank you for my supper,’ said Ginny. ‘But now I’d like to go to bed.’
EIGHTEEN
Curtis ran up the steps to his house, slotted his key in the lock and opened the door. He stepped in, locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Putting down the supermarket bags he was carrying, he took off his overcoat, put it on a hanger and hung it on a hall stand. His shoes he changed for a pair of light indoor ones. Picking up the bags, which contained groceries he had purchased on his way home, he took them into his kitchen.
It was a big family kitchen in which a dark blue Aga took pride of place. A dresser displayed a full range of china, even a pair of soup tureens. On every item the design was identical. Curtis put his bags of shopping on a large deal table that stood, chairs tucked under, in the centre of the room. He went to the dresser, opened a drawer and took out a blue and white striped apron, put it on and tied the strings round his waist. He was going to cook supper for Virginia.
Tonight’s dish would be a beef casserole. She would like that. He put some cubed beef, which he’d rolled in seasoned flour, into a pan and browned it in hot fat, then added baby onions and seasonings with some herbs. He added water and stirred all together until he considered the resulting gravy to be the right consistency. How about a dash of wine? Red for meat, yes, just a dash – he poured some in, then transferred it all into the casserole and put it in the oven. All he had to do now was prepare some potatoes and carrots.
Virginia was very appreciative of the food he cooked for her and he loved being able to please her. It was a joy to have her in the house and to be able to look after her at last. Struggling to make a living through her writing, having to care for and maintain a house was really no job for anyone with no one to help them. But she was here now and as soon as she had decided that he was right in what he was doing all would be well. He smiled as he remembered how he had wooed her with kind words, with an invitation to dinner now and then and a non-predatory approach. It had all been designed to make her feel safe with him. It had worked and made it ridiculously easy to get her into the house. She had suspected nothing and there had been no fight. Well, yes, she had objected to being shut in the cellar and had struggled, but of course she was no match for him.
Time now to clear the debris of cooking and when all utensils had been washed and dried, he put them away. Dishes went in this cupboard, bowls fitted into one another as they always did. Knives went in this slot, forks here and spoons in this compartment. Wooden spoons had their own drawer.
It was a pity that Virginia had to go in the cellar; he would have much preferred her to be up here with him. But she was not such a serene and loving person as he had thought she was. She was inclined to anger and he could never be sure when she might attack him. He could not understand why she did. What had he done but bring her here so that she would not have the worry of shopping, cleaning and all the little housekeeping jobs that took up so much time? He could do all that for her and she would be able to concentrate on her writing. If she could overcome her bad moods, she would not have to stay long in the cellar and she would see that it would be so much more comfortable and convenient to live with him.
Taking plates from the dresser, Curtis put them in the bottom oven of the Aga to warm. Next he took cutlery from a canteen and put knives and forks on the table beside two place settings. To the top right of each he placed a wineglass and a tumbler.
It was time to fetch Virginia. He might open a bottle of wine and cook the vegetables when she was here with him, it would give them time to talk and to get to know one another a little better.
Ginny looked out through the cellar window. There was a light dusting of snow on the grass but none on the earth of the flower border. The green spear of the plant that she had seen did not appear to have grown, and she concluded that it was waiting for the warmer days of spring. She thought of her own garden and of the snowdrops and crocuses she had planted, and of the honeysuckle that rambled along the fence between her house and Nancy’s. She turned away. It was no good dreaming of seeing and enjoying it all again, she might not, but still had to believe that she would. In the meantime she had to keep herself occupied and fit. To keep fit she walked, not through anxious striding back and forth while she cursed Curtis for what he had and hadn’t done, but a brisk walk to and fro while she sang whatever song would fit the rhythm. For half an hour, night and morning, she walked till the blood coursing through her veins warmed her, energized her and made her feel good in a bad place. To occupy herself during all the other hours, she continued to write the journal. She picked up the laptop now, plugged it in to the solitary socket, switched it on then, sitting on the bed, began to type.
I had another fight with Curtis. I am a fool. I keep telling myself I have to get him to think that I like being here so that he will let me out of my prison. He does let me have a shower now a
nd then, though he always takes everything but what I need out of the shower room before he lets me in and then he stands outside the door while I’m in there.
Hazel made him work late last night. He had to stand in for someone who was ill. He didn’t come home til gone ten o’clock and I was frantic with fear that he might never come home. Imagine what that would have been like. I would have slowly starved to death because no one would know that I was here. I should have been delighted to see Curtis when he did get home. But I had just gone through four hours of being afraid I was going to die so when he came through the door, I screamed and launched myself at him. But I fell and bumped my head and was knocked out. And then he surprised me by asking me to go upstairs with him and have my supper in the kitchen. He gave me a silver charm bracelet. It had one charm on it, a capital V. He said we could put another charm on for every book I had published.
I’ve been trying to work out what it is that makes Curtis behave the way he does. I’ve never known anyone who acts that way. I know that we all behave differently towards other people but I think that depends on whether we like them or not. If we want to please them, we’re not going to quarrel with them, are we? Neither are we going to be sarcastic or bitchy. But the way Curtis behaves is something completely different. And the oddest thing is that he flatly refuses to admit to what he’s done. Surely he must know. Another thing I’ve noticed is that there seems to be a time lapse, meaning that the times he behaves oddly are wiped out and he picks up where he was when the odd behaviour started. There’s something really odd about him. I wonder if I’ll ever know what?
Ginny stopped typing and read through what she’d written. Would anyone else ever read it? She closed the file, switched off, shut the laptop and put it away; she was going to read the new book that Curtis had brought her while she waited for her supper. It was called Winterdance, a book about a man who lived in Canada and had some sled dogs. It was a good book, the story compelling, leading her to turn page after page. She was still reading when Curtis came down the cellar steps and opened her door. He smiled at her.
‘Would you like to come upstairs and have your supper with me?’ he said. ‘It is almost ready.’
Ginny closed the book and laid it aside. She looked at him but said nothing. He was inviting her to leave her cell again and join him at supper. He must be really sorry for putting her to such a worry last night. Being let out, if only for an hour or two, was what she’d been praying for and now that it was happening, she didn’t know what to say.
‘I am sorry for what happened last night and I’d like to make amends,’ said Curtis. ‘We might watch some television too … if you like.’
‘I would like,’ said Ginny.
They were to eat in the kitchen. The table was laid and Ginny was delighted to see that the cutlery was silver and not plastic. She watched as Curtis took a bottle of wine and poured some out. He handed her a glass.
‘I thought we might sit and talk and get to know one another better while the potatoes are cooking,’ he said. ‘Tell me about your family. Where did you live and what did your father do for a living?’
‘We lived not far from Inverness,’ said Ginny. ‘My parents still live there. My father worked in a distillery. Lots of people did.’
‘Seeing that whisky is a very important export for Scotland, I suppose it would be surprising if they didn’t,’ said Curtis.
The potatoes boiled and the pan, overfilled, spat on to the hot plate.
‘Excuse me,’ said Curtis. ‘I’d better to see to this.’
While Curtis tended the potatoes, Ginny sipped her wine. This was luxury; a man to cook her meals, to give her presents and to buy her wine. I should be so lucky, she thought. But then I am. From where she sat, she could see into the back garden. It was totally enclosed. No doubt access at the side of the house would be locked and barred so there was no chance of making an escape that way. It seemed that there was only one way to go. She came in the front and that was the way she would go out.
‘It’s ready to dish up,’ said Curtis and bending down, took the plates out of the Aga. He then took a large casserole dish out of the main oven and put it on the table. Potatoes and carrots were dished separately. Curtis handed Ginny a tablespoon and invited her to help herself.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Curtis,’ she said as she ate an excellent meal. ‘This is absolutely delicious.’
‘I love cooking,’ said Curtis. ‘But it’s much more rewarding to cook for someone else.’
When they had eaten, Curtis refused any help to clear away dirty dishes and Ginny had to sit and watch as he filled the dishwasher. When he’d finished, he took her arm and led her to a room across the hall. The first thing she noticed was a large, flat screen television. Seating was a sofa and armchairs with a long, low coffee table fronting the sofa. On it was the TV remote and a bronze statuette of a horse.
‘We can watch television now,’ said Curtis. ‘What would you like to see?’
‘I don’t mind. Anything will do,’ said Ginny.
How neat the room was. Unlike the mad shambles of the sitting room in her house there was no clutter here. Everything looked neat and clean and in its appointed place. House-proud was the term that came to her mind and an obsession with tidiness. That Curtis was a creature of habit and a stickler for everything being in its right place could only be to her advantage. She just had to work out the most likely place he would keep the front door key.
After her spartan existence in the cellar, Ginny sank into the comfort of an armchair with great joy. She stole a sideways glance at Curtis as he reached for the remote control to switch on the TV. Thick dark hair, expertly styled, a sharp profile, nose not too long, lips just right and a chin that was neither aggressive nor weak; in fact, he was a handsome man. She knew he dressed smartly, but had never actually studied his face, though it was familiar to her.
Conscious of her staring at him, Curtis turned to her and smiled.
‘What shall we watch, then?’ he said.
‘You choose.’
So Curtis chose and Ginny watched first a documentary, then a programme about deep sea fishing and finally, the ten o’clock news. The evening had passed so quickly and Ginny, in the armchair where she was warm and comfortable, wanted to stay, but she had to go back to the cellar. She could wait until Curtis told her it was time to go, but she wouldn’t do that, she would let him believe that she was happy to go back to her cell. She stood up.
‘Thank you for this evening, Curtis,’ she said. ‘But it’s time for me to go to bed so I’ll say goodnight.’
She walked out of the room, across the hall and down the stairs. Curtis followed her and when she’d walked into the cellar, he closed the door behind her. She heard the rattle of bolts as he locked her in and then the sound of his footsteps fading as he went back up the stairs.
The evening had gone without a hitch. Curtis had been a wonderful host. All she had to do now was keep him in that mood and hope that he would invite her to spend more time with him, time in which to further her plan for escape. I feel ridiculously happy, she thought, as she prepared for bed, my days in this cell are now numbered. I know I’m going to miss Curtis when I get out. When he isn’t in his bad moods he’s really nice. It’s not his fault that he’s like that. The fault was that of his parents because of the way they treated him.
NINETEEN
The December day was cold and in places the winter sun could not reach, pockets of grass stood stiff and white with the rime of hoarfrost. Brett, on his way to Salisbury, stared out of the window of the bus. What he saw was a countryside that was still green despite frosts and the occasional flurry of snow. It was totally different from that of his native Scotland. How long would it be before he could go home? How long would it be before Ginny Harvey was found? And when she was … would she be alive or dead? He fervently hoped that it would be the former, but as he thought of the alternative there was a sick feeling in his stomach. The length of time
it was taking to find her did not auger well for the better option.
Brett was on his way to see Paul Turner, or at least try to. As he left the bus station, he consulted his map of the city and when he had located the street that Paul Turner’s studio was in, he set off. Walking had been something he had not done too much of for a very long time. His work in Africa had him sitting at a desk, dealing with a pile of paperwork and issuing orders. Hopefully, when he did eventually get home, long walks were something he would be able to do. For now, his walk was on the streets of Salisbury and, reaching his destination, he went slowly past a painted sign advertising Paul Turner’s photographic studio. It appeared to be on the ground floor of a house and the building did not seem to be very big. But town houses were often deceptive, extensions running a long way back. There was a paved area, probably once a front garden, leading from the pavement to a few shallow steps and a wide, glazed door.
As he walked into a glossy reception lobby, a girl behind a desk looked up and smiled.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she said.
‘I was hoping to see Mr Turner,’ said Brett. ‘Is he here?’
‘He is, but he’s very busy. Can I give him a message?’
‘Well … no. It was just that I wanted a studio portrait to give to my mother and Mr Turner was recommended to me. Perhaps you could make an appointment for me.’
‘Certainly, when would be convenient for you? I could fit you in … ah … let me see.’ The girl flipped over a couple of pages. ‘Friday at eleven o’clock. Would that do?’
‘That would do fine,’ said Brett.
‘And your name is?’
‘Brett McIvor.’ Brett turned away and looked around the reception area. Walls were adorned with large framed photographs. Plush seated gilt chairs had been provided for customers’ convenience. ‘Nice place you have. Bet you like working here.’
‘Yes, I do. You’ve come on a quiet day; we’re usually a lot busier.’
‘Really? But you said Mr Turner was too busy to see me.’