A noise again.
I stopped dead and listened, my ear pressed to the door. Silence. And then, very faint, from somewhere—I heard a short high-pitched sound, like a cry.
I banged on the door, hard. “Hello?” I shouted. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
I listened to the silence, and more silence, and then suddenly footsteps outside, fast, rustling, the key in the lock, and I leaped backward, stumbling, over to the bed, my breath coming in gasps. I just had time to shove the phone back into my bra.
The door opened and he stood there watching me. I noticed he was as breathless as I was, as though he’d run up the stairs.
“What are you doing?” he said, his voice measured and steady even though he was clearly upset.
“I don’t want to be locked in,” I said. “Why did you lock me in?”
He frowned. “I wanted you to be safe. You need to be safe.” He stepped toward me, into the room, and at that moment I wondered if I would have enough strength to overpower him. He was taller than me, but I was probably heavier. If I rushed at him, I could probably knock him over—but then what? Where would I go?
“I’m scared of being locked in,” I said. “I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep if I’m locked in.”
Maybe I could get away with this, I thought. Maybe there were some instincts that overrode his influence—some primal fears that were more insistent than the desire to fade away. And it occurred to me that he didn’t entirely trust me. He didn’t fully believe that I was ready to just lie down and die after all—or else why had he locked me in?
“You’re safe. You’re safe with the door locked,” he said.
He was close enough now to touch me, and, although my eyes were level with his chest and I did not want to look up, he touched my upper arm—and the touch was soothing, comforting, and I felt my heaving heart start to calm, felt the hollow thumping in my chest lessen. He said some other things. I did not hear them.
“You should sleep,” he said. “It will be easier when you’re asleep. You can sleep, Annabel.”
I sat down on the bed. “Will you be here, in the house?”
“For a while,” he said.
“I am sleepy.”
“That’s good. Why don’t you lie down?”
I lay back on the bed that smelled of damp and dust. I felt the phone move a little and, worried that it would be visible through the fabric of the blouse, I turned onto my side, away from the door, away from him.
No sounds for a moment, other than his breathing and mine. I wondered what he thought of me, lying on this strange bed in this strange house that probably held one dead body and another one that was probably on the boundary between death and life. I’d heard her cry out. That was the noise I’d heard—which meant she was alive, and she was somewhere in the house.
My heart was beating fast, the dust in my throat making me want to cough. I had my eyes closed and a tear leaked through the corner of my eye and rolled down my temple, dripping off onto the bedspread. Help me, I thought. Mum, please, help me.
And then, just as I thought he was going to stay with me, I heard his steps retreating and the door shutting behind him. I waited for the sound of the key in the lock, but it didn’t come.
I lay still on the bed for a while, not quite trusting that he wouldn’t be waiting for me to do something. I pulled the phone out of its hiding place and tried again for a signal. Nothing. I wrote another message to Sam just in case at some point it would go through.
Please hurry up. A
I waited a good ten minutes playing with the useless phone, and then I stood up again. As I did so I heard another noise in the house—and then another bang. I went to the door and turned the handle carefully so it didn’t make a noise, opened it a crack, half expecting him to be standing in the hall watching the door.
A little wider. The hallway was empty, all the other doors closed just as before. I trod carefully on the carpet, wary of creaking floorboards, but everything felt muffled, silent, as though a carpet of snow had fallen on the place rather than dust. There were flies everywhere I noticed now—dead ones, mainly, on the carpet. A couple buzzing lazily in the stale air.
At the top of the stairs I stopped and looked around the corner. No sign of him. The house waited for me to move.
By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs I was fairly certain that he’d left. The windows on either side of the front door, filthy as they were, gave me a good view of the front driveway and I could see it was empty. The Fiesta was gone. I tried the front door, but, predictably, it was locked. I checked my phone again and this time there was a signal, just two bars but it was probably enough. I dialed Sam’s number. It rang and rang and then he answered.
“Hello?” I said, my voice an urgent whisper.
There was no answer though, just a crackle and hiss. “Sam, can you hear me?”
The phone beeped and the call disconnected. I sent another text.
Am in big house on Grayswood Lane. Yew hedge.
He has gone but is coming back. Hurry. A
Downstairs, the smell was much worse. I didn’t want to explore, but at the same time I needed to find a way out. He would be back soon, and I didn’t want to be here when that happened.
Behind me there was a noise, the same as before—a moan, rising to a wail. It sounded nearer, but still a long way off. All the doors were closed, but I tried the nearest one and found myself in a large kitchen, a wooden farmhouse table at the far end and beyond it patio doors on to the large backyard. The kitchen was tidy but not clean, and the smell had ramped up a notch. I was getting closer.
“Audrey?” I said, and then a little louder, “Audrey! Can you hear me?”
I waited, listened. Nothing. My shoes crunched on the bodies of the dead flies—so many more of them, in here. The kitchen widened at the far end into a conservatory that went in an L shape around the corner, opening out onto the main living area. It had its own door onto the hallway I noticed, thinking that someone must have knocked a wall down and at the same moment wondering what on earth I was doing creeping around this house thinking about home improvement.
Then I saw the body.
Lying on the sofa this time rather than sitting in a chair, as Shelley Burton had been: what remained of the person was black, hollow-looking, still wearing clothes that were stained and slack against what remained. Patches of graying hair clung to what was left of the head, skull-like but still with shreds of skin clinging to the bone. Around the sofa, apart from the flies, everything was normal but on the sofa, what had once been a human being—with emotions and intelligence and a sense of humor—had effectively liquefied and melted into a reeking mess of decay.
I looked at the body for a long moment, without moving closer, my hand over my nose and mouth as though that would stop the smell, as though it would keep my scream and my sobs of fear and horror tight inside me. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t want to be here, in this insane place, where people were dead and nobody noticed.
Enough. Stop it, Annabel. Get a grip.
I walked carefully, my back to the bright windows that gave out onto the tangled foliage beyond, to another door at the far side of the room. It was some kind of utility room by the look of it, and another smell in here—not death this time, but something even worse. There were Wellington boots lined up under a coat rack, a long work surface with Tupperware on it, a tennis racket, cleaning materials in a bucket, a tray containing small pots for cuttings, twine, a watering can, wasp spray, a pair of gardening gloves, a broken drawer, a pile of old net curtains. I could see the back door, bolted at the top and bottom. I undid the bolts, easing them jerkily back and forth until they gave. The key wasn’t in the lock and I already knew the door would be locked. But, when I pushed it, it moved a little. I looked around for the key, thinking that they would leave it somewhere close by, whoever it was who had lived here, and there it was—on a hook, hanging on a rusty nail among cobwebs on the window frame.
I seized it and tried it in the lock. It was stiff, but this time the door opened and I pushed against the wood, warped from the rain and lack of use. Outside, the weeds were monstrous and once the door was open I could not close it again. But the fresh air, sudden after so long without it, was delicious.
Having secured my escape route, I went back into the utility room. There was another door, and when I opened it what I found behind it was, as I’d expected, a pantry: cans of food lined up on shelves, jars of pasta sauce, and, on the wider shelves below, catering-sized pots and pans, wide serving platters, packs of paper napkins. Perhaps because the doors had remained shut, there was no dust in here—just a wafting smell of something bad, rotten, like the smell of the sewage outlet I’d found on a lonely beach as a young girl. A sudden assault on the senses.
There was a noise again, this time much closer, as though she was inside this space with me.
“Audrey?” I said. “Hello? Is there someone there?”
To my left, between two shelves, was a light switch. I had been expecting the electricity to be disconnected, but to my surprise when I flicked the switch a single bulb overhead came on, and illuminated a long, narrow space lined with shelves. And at the back—right at the back—another door.
It was locked, of course. And although I fumbled on all the shelves, my hands shaking, there was no sign of a key.
I went back out into the utility room and started searching in all the drawers, pulling them out quickly and slamming them shut again, and then the cabinets underneath. In the very last one I tried, there it was: an old metal toolbox, of the type that opened like a concertina at the top. I pulled it out of the cabinet, clattering it onto the terracotta tiles, tugging the creaking hinges to open it. The tools were old, rusted, but here was exactly what I needed—a big, flat-headed screwdriver. I went back to the pantry and the door at the end, inserted the screwdriver into the space beside the lock and levered it. I was expecting the door to pop open, but of course what happened was that the wood splintered and cracked, and from behind the door somewhere I heard wailing and crying, and finally a single, wailing, desperate word rising to a shriek: “No!”
I worked at the door, digging away at the wood, until finally the screwdriver came up against metal, and I dug beneath it and levered, and with a sudden shudder and a bang the door opened.
Beyond it, darkness, and a staircase leading down.
“Audrey?” I said.
A pause, and then a hushed, throaty voice: “Who are you?”
I looked for a light switch. Surely there must be one? And then there it was, under a shelf loaded with tubs of dishwasher tablets. I flicked the switch and the staircase illuminated, and from below another shriek.
I went down the steps, gripping the screwdriver firmly in front of me in case Colin was going to appear from nowhere.
It was a small room, whitewashed brick, with a window high up on the left wall. The darkness it looked onto suggested that it was buried beneath weeds. There was a table, and an old divan with a mattress, a tea chest, empty boxes—and on the bed, curled into a ball, her face covered with both her hands, a dark-haired girl wearing a short satin skirt.
I felt a surge of relief. It was her; it was definitely her.
The room stank.
“My name’s Annabel,” I said. “I’ve come to get you out. Are you OK?”
“Water,” she said.
I went back up the stairs to the utility room. There was a butler sink in the utility room and when I ran the tap it rumbled for a second and then cold water splashed into the sink. I left it running and looked for something to hold water. In the pantry, finally, a ceramic vase. It would have to do. I filled it and turned off the tap.
As I did so, I heard a noise, a sudden bang from the front of the house.
I froze for a second, then ran back to the pantry, turning off the light, then to the door to the cellar, turning that light off, too, and coming down the steps blind. He would see the open doors. I’d opened them all over the house, and the one to the cellar was broken open. My only hope was that he’d think we’d escaped already through the back door.
“We’ve got to hide,” I whispered, my heart already thudding from the exertion of running up and down the steps. I took hold of her upper arm but she shrank away from me, curling into a tight ball.
“I’ve got water,” I said. “Come, you’ve got to come!” I put the vase down by the bottom step, felt for her again in the darkness and half dragged, half lifted her down off the bed and into the corner next to the steps. She was whimpering. There was nowhere to hide down here, not really. My only chance was that if Colin looked down here and didn’t spot us he would assume we’d left.
“Shhh,” I whispered, trying to get her to look at me. “You’ve got to be quiet. Please be quiet.”
There was silence for a moment, broken only by my breathing and Audrey’s. She sounded wheezy. If she coughed, she would give us away.
Then from upstairs, footsteps and a sudden roar. “No!”
Colin came crashing through the pantry to the door at the top of the stairs, the light went on and the room flooded with light. I closed my eyes tight at the sudden brightness, and even though Audrey whimpered again I realized he’d turned away almost immediately and a few moments later I could hear him calling from what must have been outside, “Where are you? Audrey! Come back!”
Now what? I couldn’t think straight. Try to get Audrey up the stairs? Try to get through the front door, assuming he hadn’t locked it? He would be back long before then. If he had any sense, he would get himself away from this place quickly.
I reached for the vase and held it up to Audrey’s face. In the light, despite her eyes still being screwed shut, I could see that she was pretty. Her face was dirty, streaked with grime and tears, her eyes hollow and her skin pale.
“Here,” I said. “Drink this—slowly.” She gulped at it, and I had to hold it away from her, her fingers clutching, fumbling for the vase. “No, slowly—you’ll make yourself sick. Just little sips.”
It was too late to move now: he was back inside. I heard more banging and crashing upstairs, then the floorboards creaking over our heads as he moved through the house. I could hear noises as though he was throwing things about, knocking things over.
Audrey’s face creased with panic. I felt her fear, her panic.
“Don’t be scared,” I said. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”
On the divan lay the flat-handled screwdriver. Had he seen it? I leaned Audrey against the wall and put the vase on the floor, then ran to get the tool.
“What have you done?”
From the top of the stairs, the sound of Colin’s voice, so calm, so unexpected, made me freeze where I was. I hid the screwdriver in my hand, palming the handle up inside my cardigan. Maybe he hadn’t seen it.
“What have I done?” I replied, surprising myself. “What have you done? You were keeping her prisoner!”
“Where is she?” he said, and to my surprise he sounded so sad, so distraught that I realized he hadn’t seen her. But she gave herself away, reaching for the vase, knocking it over onto the stone floor with clumsy fingers and crying out as the water spread out around her.
“Audrey!” He came down the stairs two at a time and went to her, as though he were going to hold her, embrace her, and then stopped short as she shrank away from him. He seemed to recover himself then and he stood upright, turning to me.
“Yes, well . . . she’s been through a lot. She needs time.”
“Without food or water? You were waiting for her to die?”
“I wouldn’t hurt a fly, Annabel. You know that.”
He took a step toward me, then, and I stepped back and my calves hit the edge of the divan. I looked up the stairs and wondered if I could make it quicker than he could.
“Let us go,” I said, trying to summon up a tone of voice that suggested confidence and authority.
“You’ve tried to make a fool of m
e.” He sounded angry now, frustrated. He took another step forward.
“Don’t come any closer!” I said.
He laughed; he actually laughed then. “What, you think I’m scared of you, Annabel? Why should I be? All I’ve done is try to help. That’s all I’ve ever done.” He was close enough now to touch me, and he put his hands on my upper arms as though he were going to shake me, or embrace me, or push me over. His touch was firm, his hands warm through my cardigan, which was still slightly damp from the rain.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, but quietly.
“You need to take some deep breaths, Annabel,” he said. “Calm yourself down.”
Behind him, Audrey was trying to pull herself up to a standing position. He glanced around at her, and laughed then at her efforts as she fell to one side, grunting with the strain of it. In her hand, gripped at tight as she could manage, was the ceramic vase.
“You planning to hit me with that, are you?” he jeered. “Poor Maggie. That might be her favorite vase.”
I forgot about the screwdriver and when I moved it fell out of my sleeve and onto the floor. Something took over. I twisted out of his grip and leaned back and brought my fist up and around and hit him as hard as I could on the side of his head. With it came a roar of rage and indignation, fueled by terror at what he might do next if I gave him long enough to think about it.
He let out a noise of surprise, almost a yelp, as he spun backward and lost his footing, falling to his hands and knees, then holding his cheek with one hand. “Ow!” he said. “What did you do that for?”
I clearly hadn’t managed to knock him unconscious.
Audrey held up the vase. She was sobbing, her arm over her head and flailing as though the vase weighed ten times what it did. Colin was looking up at me reproachfully and she let her arm fall. The vase hit him across the temple in the same moment I was thinking, She hasn’t got the strength, what’s she going to do, tickle him with it? he went down like a stone. Flat on his back, head to one side.
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