The Devil`s Feather

by Minette Walters

  THERE’S NO QUESTION Jess was my protector when she roared up the drive within ten minutes of my phone call. It was a little like having a knight on a white charger come to the rescue, except there was no chivalry and very little TLC. When I unlocked the back door her dogs came bounding in behind her, and she snapped at me angrily as I shrank against the wall. “I’m not facing an intruder on my own,” she hissed, following the mastiffs into the kitchen. “Wait there.” I heard her unlock the door to the corridor and then the swish of the green baize as she and the dogs disappeared into the body of the house.

  It was only when she came back alone five minutes later that I saw she was carrying a gun. She broke it across her knee and put it on the table. “You’re OK. No signs of a break-in, and I’ve left the dogs in the hall. So what happened?”

  I can’t remember what explanation I gave, other than to repeat that I thought I’d seen someone in the garden the evening before. The truth was too complicated, and I was too tired to pick my way through the minefield of revelation. Jess was unimpressed. “Why didn’t you call the police? That’s what they’re there for.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sinking miserably to my haunches in the corner. “I didn’t think of it.”

  She reached down impatiently and hauled me to my feet. “Stop being so bloody pathetic and show some guts,” she growled, pushing me on to a chair. “I know you’ve got them.”

  I wondered if this was how she’d treated Nathaniel. If so, it was hardly surprising he’d preferred Madeleine’s flattery. I don’t know what I’d expected from her—sympathy and a little affection, perhaps—but it never occurred to me that she might be frightened. It should have done. I should have guessed that my mention of an intruder would take her straight to MacKenzie’s photo.

  At the time she’d worked on the headshot, I’d expected her to bombard me with questions. She hadn’t, although I do remember her asking what the man’s name was and why I was doing it. She used the computer at the farm, with me sitting beside her, and she seemed content with the answers I gave—that it was someone I knew by sight, who was wanted in Africa for passport offences. The only comment she made was that it was surprising I was ignorant of his name when I remembered his face so well.

  “Was it that man?” she demanded now.

  I stared at my hands.

  “Who is he? Why would he come looking for you?” When I didn’t answer, she reached for the cordless phone and held it out to me. “Call the police…I’ll give you the number of the local station. The person you should ask for is Steve Banks. He’s our community bobby, and this is his area. He’s a good bloke.” She put the receiver on the table in front of me. “You’ve got one minute to make up your mind, then I’ll do it myself.”

  I pulled the phone towards me and cradled it against my chest. “There’s no point. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Then why tell me you did? Why lock yourself in here?”

  “You wouldn’t have come if I’d said I’d locked myself in for no reason.”

  She turned on the tap and ran some water into the kettle. “You look like shit,” she said severely. “Do you want to go upstairs and sort yourself out while I make some coffee? I’ll shut the dogs in the back room so you don’t throw a panic attack when you see them.” She flicked me one of her penetrating gazes as she switched on the kettle before heading for the door to the corridor. “And don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. If you take longer than half an hour, I’ll be gone…and I won’t come back. I really hate weepy women.”

  DENIAL’S A WONDERFUL THING. You can survive forever if you say “no.” It’s “yes” that puts you at risk. Yes, I’d like a job. Yes, I’ll go to Baghdad. Yes, I know who abducted me. Yes, I can identify MacKenzie. I had a great-aunt who said “no” to everything. She died a virgin at ninety-eight and her death was the most interesting thing about her. She said: “What was I thinking of?” just before she died, and we’ve been wondering ever since.

  Jess was right about my appearance. I did look like shit. Red-eyed and haggard, and easily as old and desiccated as a ninety-eight-year-old virgin. As I washed my face and tugged a brush through my hair, I asked myself what I was thinking of. I’d hardly written anything since I’d arrived—except emails to Alan and Dan—and the only people I spoke to on a regular basis were my parents, Jess and Peter. My days were spent surfing the net, researching information on psychopaths and deviants. My nights were spent dreaming about them.

  “Stalker types: The delusional stalker often has a history of mental illness which leads him to fantasize that his victim is in love with him. The vengeful stalker—the most dangerous—seeks revenge…”

  “Sadist Rapist: One who seeks to punish a woman by the use of violence and cruelty. The victim is typically only a symbol of the source of his anger. He is usually very deliberate in his rapes and plans each one carefully. The victims are often traumatized, suffer extreme physical injuries and, in many cases, are murdered…”

  “Torturer: One who inflicts extreme physical and mental pain for the purpose of punishment or obtaining information. Abuse may include: blindfolding; enforced constant standing or crouching; near drowning through submersion in water; near suffocation by plastic bags being tied round the head; rape…”

  When John Donne wrote “no man is an island, entire of itself” he can’t have known about genuine introverts like Jess or sociopaths like MacKenzie. Such people might live within communities—albeit on the fringes—but their reclusiveness, their reticence, even their indifference to what others think, means, at best, that they’re only semi-attached to the “continent” of mankind. If they engage with the rest of us at all, it’s on their own terms and not on ours.

  MacKenzie’s isolation had turned him into a predator, although it’s arguable which came first—his sadism or his alienation. It’s unlikely he was born with sadistic fantasies—what baby is?—but a harsh childhood might have led to them. By contrast, Jess’s introversion seems to have been inherited from her father, although the tragedies in her life may have exacerbated it. Sometimes, particularly when she refused to speak, I felt there was an autistic element to her personality. She was certainly a gifted artist and gave the same obsessive commitment to her work that savants show.

  In her own way, she was charismatic. She inspired affection and loyalty in those who chose to interact with her, and a disproportionate dislike among those who didn’t. There was no middle ground with Jess. You loved her or loathed her, and in either case accepted her detachment as part of the package.

  All of which persuaded me back downstairs within the half-hour limit because I needed her a great deal more than she needed me.

  Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16–19/05/04”

  …The police in Baghdad suggested that my alleged “ignorance” might be due to Stockholm Syndrome—I’d developed a bond with my captors to stay alive and was withholding information out of gratitude for my release. They told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to most hostages because their lives depend on their captors, and it’s a classic self-protection measure to befriend the one who threatens you. When I denied it, they lost sympathy with me.

  …The only bond I developed was with the footsteps. I longed for them because I was afraid I’d been left to die of slow starvation and dehydration…and feared them because it meant I’d be taken out of the crate. I certainly developed a psychological attachment to sounds. I was owned for three days—and still am.

  …I was never going to give details of what happened. How could I explain my smiles to strangers? Did I ever say no? Did I ever think about saying no?

  …Do all sadists understand the power they wield? Are all victims programmed to respond in the same way to fear and pain?

  …I wish I could believe that. At least it’s an excuse for cowardice. Why am I alive? I don’t understand that at all…

  11

  MY RETURN DOWNSTAIRS was a replay of my arrival. When I pushed open the kitchen
door, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table and Jess stood mutinously by the Aga, staring at the floor. I hadn’t heard Peter’s car, and I stiffened with anxiety as soon as I saw him. He gave me a reassuring smile. “I won’t take offence if you give me my marching orders, Marianne. Jess told me to get my ‘arse over PDQ.’ She said it was an emergency, but, as I’m sure you know by now, diagnosis isn’t her strong point.”

  Jess scowled at him. “You need to talk to someone,” she told me bluntly, “and Peter’s probably the best person. Just don’t let him put you on drugs. If he turns you into a zombie, you’ll be easy meat for any psycho that comes calling.”

  Peter frowned a warning. “Shut up, Jess. If that’s your idea of tact it’s no wonder your social circle consists entirely of weasels.”

  “It’s what she’s afraid of.”

  He stood up and gestured towards the other chair. “Please come in, Marianne. You have my word there’s no one here except me and Jess. Against her better judgement, I’ve persuaded her that now is not the time to cure you of your fear of dogs…so you don’t even have mastiffs to contend with.”

  Jess turned her scowl on me. “It’s up to you, but you’ll be better off with a dog to guard you. I’m happy to lend you Bertie. He used to be Lily’s till she couldn’t cope anymore, so he’ll settle back fine once you start feeding him…as long as you don’t go spastic and start flapping your hands around. You only need to learn a few commands and he’ll stand between you and danger.” Her expression relented a little. “Think about it, anyway. He’ll be a lot better for you than anti-depressants.”

  Peter smiled rather grimly. “You can be a real pain in the arse at times.”

  “I’m just giving some options.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re blasting off with half-baked theories as usual. I suggest we revert to plan A”—he spoke through gritted teeth—“which was to give Marianne the chance to tell us if there’s any way we can help her.” He caught my gaze and made a valiant effort to suppress the irritation in his. “Can I persuade you to come in? Or would you rather one or both of us left…?”

  I knew the irritation wasn’t directed at me, but it was enough to set a flutter of alarm knocking at my ribcage. My response to any display of male impatience or displeasure was a rush of fear. There were too many associations, and not just with MacKenzie. During the police interview in Baghdad—where the questioning became increasingly brusque—I’d started shaking so badly that the American adviser called a halt and asked if I’d prefer to speak to a woman.

  I had declined so vehemently that a puzzled frown creased his forehead. “But you seem distressed, Connie. I thought you might be more comfortable with a member of your own sex.”

  I’d reached for a glass of water, then changed my mind because I didn’t want the rim rattling against my teeth. “I’m tired,” I managed out of a dry mouth, “and if I start again with somebody new, I’ll miss my plane. I really want to get home to my parents in England.”

  He wasn’t unkind. In other circumstances I’d have liked him. “I understand that, but I’ve no wish to upset you, and I have the feeling I’m doing that. Would you care for a female officer to sit in on the session?”

  I shook my head. I was afraid of a woman’s sympathy, even more afraid of her instincts. It was easier telling lies to men. I ran my tongue round the inside of my mouth and manufactured a convincing smile. “I’m OK. Just exhausted. It was frightening…you don’t sleep when you’re frightened.”

  He watched my expression as Dan put an arm across my shoulders to comfort me. I kept the smile in place—just—but I couldn’t stop my eyes widening. Perhaps men are as instinctive as women, because the frown returned immediately. “I’m not happy about this, Connie. Are you sure you’ve told us everything?”

  All I could do was stare at him. My whole body was rebelling at Dan’s closeness. That was the first time I had difficulty breathing, although it was more an enforced holding of my breath—a twenty-second freeze—than the panic that came afterwards. It seems to take time for the bombshell of terror to start exploding without warning. Perhaps we function on automatic pilot in the immediate aftermath of trauma, and only experience anxiety when the body needs rest and the brain overrules it for fear of being caught napping again.

  Dan spoke for me. “Give her a break, Chas. She’s told you all she can. The men who took her from the taxi wore ski masks, and she was duct-taped and hooded from the off. When I found her, she’d been in darkness so long she couldn’t open her eyes…and that was less than four hours ago. Be grateful she agreed to talk at all. If I’d had my way, she’d have been on the first plane out and you’d have been asking London for information.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I don’t think you do. You heard the doc. He suggested a twenty-four-hour recuperation period before she answered questions, so letting London do the honours would have made more sense. You’d still have got your information…but the delay would have reduced its value. Connie understood that, which is why she’s here.”

  “I do appreciate that, Dan, but, unfortunately, Connie hasn’t been able to tell us anything.” He shifted his attention to me. “Do you know if a video was made of you? The home movie seems to be the hostage-takers’ trademark…they want their fifteen minutes of fame just like Westerners do. Do you remember hearing a camera going?”

  I managed to say “no,” and smile while I did it, but my heart was going like a hammer. The whole concept was too devastating to deal with. I could have maintained a pretence of dignity if there’d been no record of what I did. He took close-ups—“show you’re enjoying it, feather”—so there’d be an identifiable human face, even with taped eyes, on the obedient, rag-doll body.

  What was he planning to do with the tape? How many people would see it? Was I recognizable as Connie Burns? Would Dan see it? My parents? My friends? My colleagues? All other invasions seemed trivial compared to a public unveiling in the Baghdad bazaars, or, worse, through al-Jazeera TV or the Internet. Is life worth living when you’ve had to beg for it? How do you function without self-esteem? How do you find the courage to go out?

  “Why do you think you were released so rapidly, Connie? Dan’s told us he wasn’t involved in any negotiations because he didn’t know who was holding you. Nor did we…nor did any of the religious groups. So why did they let you go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The current average is two weeks. At the end of that time, depending on how much pressure has been brought to bear, hostages are either released or beheaded. We think most are being taken to Fallujah—or one of the other no-go areas—but you appear to have been held in Baghdad…then released after three days without any active intervention. It doesn’t fit the patterns we’ve seen, Connie.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not blaming you,” he said with a sigh. “I’m trying to demonstrate why we need as much information as you can give us. Our only lead was your driver—and he’s vanished—so we’ve no idea what we’re dealing with here. It may be the beginning of a new pattern…or the emergence of a new group, whose only saving grace is that they haven’t learnt to kill yet.” He watched my eyes grow wider as Dan gave my shoulder a clumsy squeeze in solidarity. “Do you want someone else to suffer your fate, Connie?”

  I couldn’t have spoken even if I’d wanted to.

  “What sort of a question’s that?” asked Dan angrily. “You know damn well your chance of catching these bastards is zero. Zarqawi’s got a ten-million bounty on his head…and no one’s turned him in. If you increase it to twenty-five million, they still won’t. What can Connie tell you that’s going to change that?”

  “Nothing, as far as Zarqawi’s concerned. I’m willing to accept she was taken for onward sale, but in that case why didn’t he buy her?” He held my gaze for a moment, then turned back to Dan. “There’s a lot of mileage to be made out of female journalists. They’re known to their fellow professionals, and women under thr
eat make good copy. Connie and Adelina Bianca have inspired more column inches between them than any other hostages.” He flicked another glance in my direction. “Why would Zarqawi—why would any terrorist—turn down publicity like that? It sure as hell doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  It didn’t to Dan either, but he fought my corner as he’d promised he would. My only leverage was the fact that we’d known each other for years. I’d first met him in South Africa when I joined the Cape Times as a rookie sub-editor from Oxford, and he was a columnist. We overlapped for a year before he moved abroad to join Reuters, but we knocked into each other regularly when he was sent to cover an “Africa” story. He came from Johannesburg, but his primary place of residence—according to his tax returns—was County Wexford, Eire, where he “lived” with his Irish wife, Ailish, and their daughter, Fionnula.

  It was a strange relationship. His visits to Ireland were even more intermittent than the occasional postings that brought him and me together. I asked him once how he came to marry an Irish girl, and he said it was a shotgun wedding when she fell pregnant. “She was a student in London and was frightened to go home without a ring. Her father believes in hellfire and brimstone. He’d have kicked her out to fend for herself.”

  “Why didn’t she have an abortion?”

  “Because Ailish believes in hellfire and brimstone more than her old man does.”