The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  “O.K.,” Roger replied, “but I don’t want to be long. My mum will have supper ready and I don’t want her to know yet … It’s a surprise,” he added quickly, noticing the renewed cynicism on Michael’s face.

  Two weeks later, the first Saturday in May, he unlocked the front door and carted in his sparse possessions: his computer, and a rickety wooden table from a High Street junk shop to stand it on. The brand new bed—the one on which Trudy was lying—with pocket-coiled interior springs and brass bedstead, was delivered that afternoon. The shiny brass bedstead was the most expensive in the store, but the cost hadn’t bothered him. His offshore account, overseen by the company’s financial adviser, was as healthy as a rock star’s bar bill, and a trickle of cash dripped into his local bank— the one his mother kept her eye on. His chequebook from an international bank, the one he bought the

  house and bed with, was another of his secrets. The concealed room was his biggest secret of all.

  It was a stray electricity cable, which led him to the secret room. He hadn’t been searching—he had no need. Everything he required was in the front room and, at last, he was able to enjoy the freedom of communicating with Trudy without his mother poking her nose in. But George’s continual prying ate into his privacy and forced him into the back room, where the antiquated power socket wouldn’t work.

  The electrical supply panel, in the cupboard under the stairs, was part of a mysterious parallel world not usually inhabited by Roger. However, a cursory inspection revealed an old cable, insulated with frayed brown fabric, disappearing through a hole in the cupboard’s floorboards. It must be the one, he thought, for no good reason, and pulled until it snapped, the loose end hurtling out of the hole and attacking him like a spiteful snake. Leaping away, he slammed the cupboard door and stood, sweat-soaked, in the dingy hallway, trying to catch his breath.

  Armed with a screwdriver from his car’s toolkit, he returned to the fray and, in the murky light filtering through a filthy transom window above the door, he tried to prise a floorboard to get at the broken cable. The screwdriver slid easily between two boards but, when he exerted pressure, the entire floor lifted. Releasing the tension he tried again, this time prising the board at the other end until he could catch his. fingers underneath. The floor was a trap door and, as it swung upwards, he noticed a hook on the angled ceiling underneath the stairs, and was surprised when the hook grasped and held the door in place. Then he looked down and was startled to find a pitch-black shaft festooned with spider webs.

  Dark and dank, the rectangular adit was the size of a small grave, although its depth was lost in the murk. Someone with imagination might have concocted an intriguing tale to explain its presence—may even have written a book: The Rat, the Goblin and the Cupboard Under the Stairs,” perhaps. But Roger shut the door and would have forgotten about it had his neighbour not persisted in peeping.

  It was three days before he plucked up the courage to descend into the pit. Driven by George’s constantly twitching curtains, he lifted the trap door, checked that nothing had altered, then felt his way down the robust wooden ladder. The dirt floor met him out of the blue and he gingerly tested it with his weight, fearing it might be a ledge—but it held. With his feet solidly planted he fished a flashlight from his pocket, spun to search for the broken cable, and came face to face with a solid wooden door. His nervous system went into overdrive, quivering his muscles and sucking the saliva from his mouth, and the flashlight fell from his hand with a thud that made him leap.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted in panic, scrabbling for his lamp, and he froze, certain he’d heard a reply. Then the doorknob started turning and he wasn’t altogether sure whether it was him or some unseen hand on the other side. As the door swung open the vacant room made a mockery of his anxiety.

  “MUM, I’VE FOUND A WAY TO GET SOME AIR,” typed Trudy, the only inhabitant of Roger’s secret room in more than half a century. “I WANT TO TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED.”

  Trudy sat almost motionless on the stone floor, only her damaged hand moving as it painstakingly picked out each key from memory.

  “IT WERENT ALL MY FAULT MUM, HONESTLY. ROGER TOOK ME TO HIS HOUSE, HE TOLD ME HIS NAME WAS MATTHEW.”

  She stopped, thought, decided.

  “MUM I HAVE TO GO. BACK IN A MINUTE.”

  Trudy rolled her body sideways, twisted into a crawling position, and dragged herself slowly across the room toward the door. It was only ten feet, no more than the width of her bedroom back home in Leyton, but the crawl took her weakened body nearly two minutes. Five minutes later she was back at the keyboard.

  “MUM, IM STILL HERE. I SUCK AIR THREW THE KEYHOLE, BUT ITS A LONG WAY. MY HANDS AND KNEES HURT.”

  Her stinging hands, especially the right one with a blister turning septic, were so painful she used her wrists and forearms to pull herself from the computer to the tiny air hole in the door. Two minutes there, two minutes back, and a minute to breathe in between.

  “IF I SUCK REALLY HARD IM ALRIGHT FOR A WHILE,” she added, wanting to explain everything.

  The keyhole, her lifeline, had also been her focus of hope for the past week. She had stared at it a thousand times a day, waiting for the grate of Roger’s heavy iron key in the lock each morning before he went to work, and then each evening as he came home.

  “IM IN A ROOM UNDER ROGERS HOUSE,” she painstakingly typed. “ITS IN WATFORD, BUT I DONT KNOW THE ADDRESS. HE TOLD ME HE HAD A BIG HOUSE—BUT ITS LITTLE.” She paused, exhausted, and panting for breath, then slowly eased herself onto her stomach and started another journey toward her lifeline.

  “ITS ME,” she announced five minutes later, unthinkingly writing the expression she had always used to announce her arrival from school. Her routine had rarely varied. Pushing her key into the lock she would throw open the door, drop her school bag on the floor, sling her coat optimistically toward the hall cupboard and shout, “It’s me,” as if she had been away for a month. Before her father had left she could expect her mother’s answering, “Hello Trudy, I’m in the kitchen,” but afterwards, she rarely received a response.

  “ROGERS GONE AWAY,” she continued, “HE SAID HE WOULD COME BACK BUT I WASNT VERY NICE. I BIT HIM AND KICKED HIM WHERE IT HURTS, AND I SCREAMED A LOT. THEN HE SUFFOCATED ME.”

  Writing “suffocated” reminded her it was almost time to go back to the door. The journey itself consumed most of the energy acquired, so by the time she returned to the computer she was already craving more air.

  “HE LEFT ME BISCUITS AND BOTTLES OF WATER,” she continued, as if she had not been away. “BUT NO PROPER FOOD. THERES NO TOILET-JUST A STINKY BUCKET.” She paused, breathless, and considered starting another round-trip to the door, but decided she could manage another line.

  “THIS ROOM WAS DUG BY SOME PEOPLE IN THE WAR. I FOUND A DIARY AND SOME THINGS IN A TIN.”

  The square metal Oxo tin had a picture of a bull on the top and an insignia printed in red, “1,000 Oxo cubes, halfpenny each or 6 for two pence.” It had caught her eye as soon as she regained consciousness. The dust covered rusty tin had been abandoned in a corner and she lay on the bed, staring at it in the pale glow of the computer screen. After Roger left the first night, she gingerly opened the hinged lid to examine the contents; hopeful it might contain a spare key for the room, though would have been surprised if it had.

  “It’s just a school exercise book,” she muttered, taking out the old fashioned book with green marbled cover. “G. A. Blenkinsop. Diary of War,” had been penned in the spaces for name and subject and, with great curiosity, she opened the wrinkled yellowed pages.

  August 25th, 1940

  If you are reading this our plan failed. Yesterday, the Willards, next door, were killed by a bomb. One of Churchill’s. Part of his campaign of terror against his own people to incite them to fight against the International Fascist Party. We will not be defeated.

  August 26th, 1940.

  Started work on underground shelter today. Made trap d
oor under stairs. Children must not tell anyone— sworn to secrecy.

  August 27th, 1940.

  Air raid last night. Worked all night. No problem with noise—big raid. Children helping nicely.

  August 28th-September 2nd, 1940.

  Too busy to write everyday. Working overtime at the office for the war effort. Then dig most of the night. Martha digs in the day as well.

  She skipped forward a few entries, each much the same. Digging, digging, and more digging. On many days there were no comments at all.

  September 10th, 1940.

  Everybody working hard. 2 big air raids on 6th and 9th. Hid in our new shelter, felt safe. Throwing dirt onto bombsite next door. Warning of invasion given on the 7th. Operation Sea Lion is under way. Liberation is coming.

  September 18th, 1940.

  Digging finished. Using bricks from bombsite next door to make walls. Will take a long time. Battle of Britain officially over on 15th. Churchill lied—he didn’t win. The Fuehrer is re-grouping to liberate us.

  September 29th, 1940.

  Walls almost done. Stones for floor very heavy. Still no word on advancing army. Air raids stopped.

  October 15th, 1940.

  Room finished. Door seals well. Going to Hampshire for a few days rest.

  Trudy idly flicked pages but there was nothing more. Just five pages explaining why her prison had been constructed. Reading and re-reading the neatly written notes, she wondered what had happened to the family— What plan? How had it failed? Her muddled brain couldn’t work it out and she was just putting the book back when something glinting in the bottom of the tin caught her attention. In the gloomy light she hadn’t at first noticed the five silver swastikas encrusted with diamonds, but now she carefully examined them; turning them over in her hands, wondering at their intricate beauty. Then, worrying Roger might catch her and take them away, she shoved everything back and squirreled the tin under the bed.

  “MUM, ARE YOU STILL THERE?” enquired Trudy, kidding herself that the typewritten words were somehow breaking out of the computer and surging through the Internet; inwardly knowing that without Roger’s password, they could not. “I HAD TO GET MORE AIR,” she continued, almost apologetically.

  “I TRIED TO GET OUT AT FIRST, I DIDNT KNOW I WAS UNDERGROUND. ROGER SAID HE WOULD LOOK AFTER ME. I SAID I WANTED TO GO HOME. HE CRIED AND SAID HE WANTED ME TO GO HOME TO. I PROMISED NOT TO SAY WHAT HAPPENED IF HE LET ME GO. HE SAID HE WOULD THINK ABOUT IT.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, as if considering whether or not she should tell her mother anything else; then her sore fingers started again. “HE KEPT SAYING HE LOVED ME AND I SAID, IF YOU LOVE ME LET ME GO, BUT HE DIDNT. WHEN I SCREAMED HE PUT HORRIBLE TAPE ON MY MOUTH—AND HE TIED ME UP SOMETIMES, WHEN I KICKED.”

  Suddenly finding herself short of breath she hurriedly added, “GOTTA GO,” and started another excursion to the tiny vent in the door.

  “MUM, ARE YOU STILL THERE?” she continued, returning ten minutes later, her delusional mind unable or unwilling to accept that her message was going nowhere. “IVE BEEN GONE A LONG TIME COS I NEEDED MORE AIR. IVE BEEN SUCKING FOR AGES AND AGES AND I THINK I CAN STAY WITH YOU LONGER BEFORE I GET DIZZY AGAIN.”

  “MUM,” she started again, pounding the keyboard fiercely, insisting her mother should listen, “WHEN I GET DIZZY ITS LIKE WHEN YOU BEND DOWN AND STAND UP TOO QUICKLY. KNOW WHAT I MEAN?” Without awaiting a response, though none was forthcoming, she changed topics and typed. “I DONT THINK HE RAPED ME. PAULINE ADAMS WAS RAPED BY HER BOYFRIEND AND SHE SAID IT HURT BAD. I COULDNT FEEL ANYTHING WHEN I WOKE UP SO I GUESS I’M O.K. BUT IT HURT WHEN HE TIED ME TO THE BED.” She closed her eyes thinking of the time she was sure she had escaped—the second day of her captivity, when he’d caught her—then continued typing.

  “He tied me up because I nearly got out. I’d hid under the bed and kept very still.”

  Roger, paying his usual morning visit before catching his train to the city, had unlatched the trap door in the cupboard under the stairs, scrambled down the ladder, and slipped his key in the lock with the anticipation of a birthday-boy. But the gift box was empty.

  “HE DIDN’T SEE ME UNDER THE BED,” she carried on, caught up in the excitement of her tale, “SO HE WENT BACK UPSTAIRS. I CREPT OUT AND GOT RIGHT TO THE TOP OF THE LADDER, BUT HE SAW ME. HE WAS AT THE BACK DOOR AND HE SAW ME IN THE HALLWAY. I RAN TO THE FRONT DOOR AND GOT IT OPEN, THEN HE CAUGHT ME. I KICKED AND SCREAMED AGAIN BUT HE WAS TOO STRONG. THEN HE TIED ME TO THE BED AND LEFT ME FOR AGES.”

  She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys, deliberating whether or not she had the strength to tell her mother what else had occurred. Eventually, she made up her mind. “MUM. HE LOOKED AT ME. YOU KNOW—DOWN THERE,” she wrote finally, after erasing vagina and fanny, twice. “MY FEET WERE TIED TO THE BED AND HE PULLED MY KNICKERS DOWN AND JUST LOOKED AND LOOKED. THEN HE SAID SORRY AND PULLED THEM BACK UP. THEN HE STARTED CRYING AND IT MADE ME CRY AS WELL.”

  Trudy suddenly found herself sinking and pumped herself up with a few sharp breaths. “MUM. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?” she typed, with a fervour that smacked of shouting. “I’LL HAVE TO GO AGAIN IN A MINUTE, BUT I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE YOU EVER SO MUCH. I REALLY MISS YOU. PLEASE COME AND GET ME SOON. GET ME BEFORE ROGER COMES BACK. I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU.”

  She stopped, and slumped gracelessly onto the hard floor, landing heavily on her left arm. The damaged and tender shoulder muscles registered no pain, the nerves too starved of oxygen to care. Totally exhausted, she momentarily slipped into unconsciousness, but, just a few seconds later, an explosive bout of coughing wrenched her from oblivion and forced her to start another journey across the room. She had woken from a dream to a nightmare.

  “ITS ME AGAIN,” she wrote nearly an hour later, thinking she’d taken only a few minutes. “SORRY I TOOK SO LONG.”

  Her crawl to the door had been interrupted by several bouts of torpor; when her mind had refused stubbornly to register anything other than the whooshing of useless air as she hyperventilated on a fetid atmosphere almost devoid of oxygen.

  “IM GOING TO TAKE A BREAK MUM. DO YOU MIND? IM SO TIRED,” she typed

  laboriously as her mind and body continued to slow, while her biological clock sped up, racing toward midnight.

  A moment later she jerked back to consciousness; something important nagging her brain. “MUM— WAKE ME IF IM ASLEEP WHEN YOU GET HERE,” she typed, then movement stopped, time was suspended. No more letters jumped onto the screen for more than a minute as her fingers, drifting aimlessly above the keys, awaited further instructions. To her befuddled brain, the minute seemed less than a second before she questioned, “MUM, IF I FALL ASLEEP WILL I BE ABLE TO BREATHE?” And another momentary pause was followed by a short burst of movement as her fingers howled, “HELP ME MUM.”

  chapter six

  “Ze captain has called a meeting in twenty minutes at the port.” Yolanda glanced at her watch. “At two-thirty.”

  Detective Inspector David Bliss followed her gaze and his eyes popped: chunky gold—inlaid with rubies and diamonds. “Carder,” he mused, praying she’d not noticed his Timex.

  “It’s still only one-thirty in England,” he mumbled, more to himself than her, his battered old watch still behind the time. “God. No wonder I’m tired I’ve been up since six o’clock yesterday morning, that’s …” his eyes closed in concentration, “that’s more than thirty hours.”

  “The ship’s gone,” she said, confirming the obvious, as they drove down the narrow cobblestone street, overlooking the port, a short while later.

  “Nice leather,” he muttered, sliding his hand over the BMW’s white doeskin seat squab.

  “A bit foggy,” she replied.

  He let her misunderstanding pass with a smile and scanned seaward, looking out over the salt marsh to the wide estuary. But the SS Rotterdam had already dissolved into the thick moisture laden air.

  The cobbled street was almost deserted, as were the three bars,
which they passed just before the rail tracks. “Heineken, Carlsberg, and Royal Dutch,” proclaimed their towering signs without need of further explanation. On any normal day each bar would have been packed with its supporters. But today was abnormal. Although the hubbub of the ship’s departure had died, groups of disgruntled workers were still gathered on the damp quayside awaiting further instructions. Rumours had spread from one group to the next that every truck and container off the ship would have to be unpacked and physically searched. Carefully circumnavigating deep pools from the night’s storm, Yolanda parked on the edge of a large gravelled area amongst clumps of spiky sea-grass, polystyrene cups, and cola cans. Driftwood signposts, eaten by wind and wave, warned of the tide’s upper reach.

  “Zis is an old castle,” announced Yolanda, indicating a heavily fortified beachside bunker. “The meeting is here.”

  Captain Jahnssen was waiting for them. “Detective Bliss,” he called excitedly. “We’ve got Motsom’s car.”

  “What about Motsom?”

  “He can’t be far away,” he replied, sheepishly dusting off his shoes with a handkerchief, knowing that one of his officers had been sitting on the information for an hour in the hope of catching Motsom single-handed. “We will soon have him caught.” added Jahnssen with more confidence. “We have detectives watching him now … This was built by the Germans in the first war,” he went on, segueing conveniently to a more comfortable subject as his right hand swept around the concrete blockhouses.

  “Impressive,” agreed Bliss, pointedly checking his watch, anxious to move on; anxious to start a proper search for LeClarc; anxious to have some answers for the dreadful Edwards on his arrival at six.

  “This is the outer defences, where the guns were,” Yolanda explained as they reached the seaward side. “Look,” she instructed, pointing to horizontal slits where gun barrels had once dominated the Rhine estuary.