by Jo Verity
She reached across the cool sheet but Tom wasn’t there. She angled her wrist to catch the moonlight on her watch. Almost two. Where could he be? The vomiting had left her with a raging thirst and she went to the bathroom and drank two beakers of water. The house was silent, so they must all be asleep somewhere.
The kitchen was extremely tidy. There was nothing to be washed up, nothing drying in the rack. In the fridge, several plates of supper leftovers lay neatly covered with cling film. The ironing pile had disappeared from the utility room. Her fairy godmother must have flown in while she was sleeping.
Wide-awake and ravenous, she took a raspberry yoghurt from the fridge, condensation forming on the cold plastic under her hand. One tub didn’t satisfy her and she took another. Blackcurrant this time. Her empty stomach cramped a little but her head was clear and she couldn’t prevent thoughts from rushing in. All those months avoiding the man and then marching in and asking him to…what? What had she been asking him to do? It was essential to fathom it out now, whilst she still remembered exactly how it had been.
Long before Bill had kissed Celia or groped Jenny, he’d chosen her and she’d rather come to count on his admiration. Knowing that Bill’s passion was smouldering away had been rather thrilling. Wasn’t it selfish, though, expecting him to stay keen, when he received no jot of encouragement? All she’d been trying to do was to offer him a little something in return. But only a little something.
Whoever had worked the miracles in the kitchen had forgotten to lock the back door. She had lost track of her family, where they were sleeping and what they were doing. After the heat, the night air was deliciously refreshing and the moon was a silver-white disc. The stones felt neither hot nor cold beneath her bare feet, as she tip-toed to sit on the low wall opposite the back door. All the houses were in darkness, as she would have expected them to be at this time of night. Bill’s car was absent. He hadn’t come back. Raising her fingers to her forehead, she pressed the tender spot again, the only evidence that anything had happened.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path at the side of the outhouse and Tom appeared out of the velvety shadows. ‘Hi. Feeling better?’
‘Much. I must have had too much sun. Now I’ve had too much sleep. Where have you been?’
‘I started off in the living room. You were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to disturb you. But I was restless. Your father and I found a badger sett yesterday, up in the wood, and I’d decided to go and take a look.’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘No. They must have heard me coming or caught my scent. But I’ll try again tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Only if you roll in cow dung to cover up your lovely smell. And you mustn’t utter one single word.’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘And we’ll have to stay stock still for four or five hours.’
‘My idea of a great night out.’
Seren’s intermittent cry came from the open window, above. The light went on and she heard Maddy cooing the familiar words of comfort that all mothers whisper to their fretful babies.
26
The weather broke at the end of the week. After the long, dry spell the first giant raindrops unleashed earthy scents from the baked soil and desiccated grass.
‘Ideal conditions for the party.’ Tom in shorts, wellington boots and waterproof jacket, dripped into the utility room, carrying a bucket of potatoes.
‘Come on. It’s not for a couple of weeks. And the garden could do with it.’
The house was theirs again. Maddy had stayed on in Bath after the funeral, to keep her grandfather company. He was very positive about the arrangement, readily accepting the disruption that accompanies a four-week-old baby. Transporting Seren, with all her attendant equipment, had necessitated towing the trailer. ‘It’s like the arrival of the Queen of Sheba,’ Frank had commented, cheerfully. They were the only mourners to arrive at the funeral with a trailer but Frank was sure that Dorothy would have been ‘tickled pink’.
‘You think we should go ahead with this party, do you? Won’t it look a bit odd to celebrate an engagement without either of the bridegroom’s parents being present?’ Tom hadn’t been keen on the party but Flora never demanded much of them and he had gone along with it.
‘They’re Luke’s parents. I think he should have the final say.’
‘I can’t understand what Bill’s playing at, can you? If he needs time to “get his head around things,” I would have thought he’d be better off at home than in Aberystwyth.’ Tom pulled the postcard off the board, scanning the over-bright picture. ‘The Promenade.’ He turned it over. ‘“Trying to get my head around things. Could someone water the plants?” Does that sound like a man who’s thinking of hosting a party?’
‘He’s old enough to decide for himself and it’s good to hear he’s OK.’
‘Why has it taken him this long to crack up? Sally’s been gone a couple of months and he was doing fine.’
‘I expect he thought she’d come back. Maybe he’s not so sure now. Did you go in there today?’
‘Yes. It smells funny, but I couldn’t find anything obvious. I’ve opened a few windows. There were some letters, too. Of course Len must have twigged that something’s up. It’s probably all round the village by now.’ He pulled a clutch of wet envelopes from his pocket. ‘What d’you think we should do with these?’
The paper was sodden from the rain and already starting to disintegrate. Two were bills, but the third was a pale blue envelope, addressed by hand, to ‘Bill Davis’. The ink had run but, nevertheless, Anna recognised the writing. ‘It’s from Sally. She always uses a fountain pen.’
He peered at the smudged postmark. ‘London. Wonder what that means.’
Over lunch they debated what to do with Sally’s letter, as they had no forwarding address. They tried to ease open the flap of the envelope with a knife, and would have succeeded had the paper been wetter. In the end, Anna phoned Flora at work. ‘We’ve got a letter from Sally here, addressed to Bill. Can Luke contact him and find out what he wants us to do with it? It could be important.’
‘She wrote to Luke, too. From Heathrow. She’s gone to India, to meet Emily.’
‘Good grief.’
‘Exactly. Luke’s not very happy about it. He says he feels like a parent with a couple of delinquent children. Uncle Bill’s not answering his mobile, just sending text messages that don’t really make any sense. It’s getting a bit much. I’m beginning to think we’ll have to call the party off. At this rate, the whole Davis family will have run away.’
Tom cheered up considerably at the prospect of cancellation. To add to his good humour, the rain stopped and within ten minutes the roofs were steaming in the sunshine.
Peter and Mark emerged from the Redwoods’ back door, golf clubs rattling in their bags. They were off to the municipal course and invited Tom to join them. He glanced at Anna for permission. She was planning to do some weeding whilst the soil was damp and, when it was cooler, to pop in to Ludlow for the shopping. ‘Off you go. Take as long as you like. We’ll have a late supper.’
‘Celia and Jenny are in the house, if you want some company,’ said Mark.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got loads of things to do. Don’t worry about me.’
The soil, softened by the downpour, responded to her hoe and, in no time at all, she had cleared the encroaching chickweed and couch grass from the bean and pea rows. The rain had revived the flagging spinach and the leaves stood dark and shiny. The moisture would swell the onions, too, and ensure that the cabbage seed germinated quickly. She would be soon be looking for sturdy seedlings to plant out for next spring’s crop.
When Bill left Pen Craig, certain possibilities went with him. There was no chance that she might bump into him in the yard or that he would wander into the summerhouse while she was reading. He wouldn’t be watching her through the kitchen window as she did the washing up. He wasn’t go
ing to be in the yard with Tom and the others, discussing the swimming pool. Nor lurking in the shadows, waiting to kiss her or make love to her.
She cleaned the tools and let her imagination slip the leash. When Tom was around, she never indulged in such thoughts. Working to rules made things simpler. Besides, the Bill business had nothing to do with what she felt for Tom. It was more as if she had a hoard of memories and feelings, safely hidden away, which she could summon up at will. Shorthand for the phenomenon might be ‘fantasy world’ but it was more subtle than that. Whatever it was, it was proving to be much more enjoyable now that Bill had gone and she didn’t have to deal with the reality of the man, whom she wasn’t even sure she liked.
She filled the kettle and wrote a shopping list while she waited for it to boil. Tom’s navy linen suit needed to go to the dry cleaners’. He looked very dashing when he wore it and she wanted it to be clean and pressed in case the party did go ahead. Then there were her library books to take back. And she ought to start looking for Jenny’s birthday present because it always took longer to find a suitable gift for Jenny, than for any of the others. Finally there was food shopping, although they didn’t need so much now that they’d reverted to being a two-person household.
The suit was in Tom’s wardrobe and she sang to herself as she ran up the stairs. Madeleine’s room was quiet and tidy without its occupants. She missed the baby, but they would be back soon enough and she vowed to make the most of the peace.
Immediately she walked into the bedroom, she knew that someone was there. Swinging round, she saw him, half hidden by the open door. He wore a tweed suit and his face was shiny with sweat and expressionless, as if it were in neutral, waiting to start a journey. He kicked the door shut.
She had often wondered how she would react in a crisis. Would she turn the steering wheel the right way on the patch of ice? Would she remember the Heimlich manoeuvre or whatever it was called, if someone were choking on food? Could she perform mouth to mouth resuscitation effectively? These were things that she’d rehearsed but she’d never been told what to do if she came upon an intruder in her bedroom. In this case, the intruder wasn’t even a stranger which made it, somehow, more shocking. ‘Hello, Mr Prosser.’ What a ridiculous thing to say.
‘Hello, Mrs Wren … Anna.’ He rolled her name around his tongue, as if it were an insult.
Was there a helmet, clamped over her ears, distorting sounds and doing something weird to her eardrums? ‘Can I … is there … what?’ She was finding it impossible to assemble enough words to make even the simplest sentence.
‘You’re supposed to be in the garden.’
‘I was. But. But… Tom? Tom?’ She raised her voice, calling for him, although she knew he wouldn’t come.
‘I’m not stupid, Mrs Wren. Tom’s off golfing, isn’t he? You told him not to rush back, didn’t you?’
Oh God, oh God, he must have been out there in the yard, listening. Her tongue, dry as chalk, felt as if it had swelled inside her mouth. ‘Celia and Jenny…’
‘…went off together, in the car. To Shrewsbury.’
Why hadn’t she done what Mark suggested and gone with them? Right now she could be sitting in a café, drinking coffee and gossiping about Sally. She couldn’t speak. Her brain was a tangle of disconnections, incapable of logical thought. Ugly, terrifying words flashed through her mind, like neon signs tearing the darkness. Rape. Torture. Murder. Assault. None of them held any hope or reassurance.
Prosser avoided eye contact and stood, clenched fists at his sides. Something that might have been a bra strap dangled from his jacket pocket. He was acting tough but he must be as scared as she was. Anger bubbled up through the incapacitating fear. How dare he come snooping, especially when the room was in such a mess? Yesterday’s knickers lay on the floor next to the laundry basket, and the bed was unmade.
He held something out towards her. ‘You never thanked me for bringing them back.’ The earrings lay in the palm of his hand. ‘Aren’t you going to wear them for me? Go on.’
Not knowing what else to do, she took the earrings from him, her fingertips brushing his calloused palm, and fumbled the hooks through her ears. ‘I don’t think they go with my outfit, do you?’ She immediately regretted the puerile attempt at humour. Then, without warning, she was overcome with a need to urinate. ‘I really have to go to the bathroom. Please. I can’t wait.’
She took a step forwards and, for one second, it appeared that he might stand aside and allow her to pass, but he held up his hand, making her stop and plead some more.
‘Please.’ It would be humiliating to wet herself and she was near to tears.
He edged the door open, never taking his eyes off her face. ‘Go on then.’ There was a half-chance to dash down the stairs but she was so desperate to empty her bladder that she could think of nothing else. She ran across to the bathroom and he followed her, standing in the doorway, back against the doorframe, arm stretched across to the form a shoulder-high barrier. He averted his eyes when she pulled down her cotton trousers and sat on the lavatory. While she urinated, she looked around for anything which might help her. The window was open but it was too small and, anyway, they were two storeys above the paved yard. A pair of nail scissors rested on the rim of the bath, where she’d been cutting her toenails that morning. She turned to pull the toilet paper from the roll and tried to snatch up the scissors, but she misjudged it and they clattered into the bath.
‘That’s it.’ He signalled her to stand and she pulled up her clothes, hunching forward to conceal herself. Then he pulled the black leather belt from the loops on his trousers. Was he was going to undo his flies? A scream rose in her throat as he came towards her and she had time to imagine what might come next. He signalled her to turn round, yanking her arms backwards, using the belt to strap her wrists behind her. He pointed across the landing. ‘Take it very slow.’ He walked behind her, gripping the several twists of leather and guiding her down the stairs. He was breathing noisily, through his nose, like an overwrought animal. Occasionally he pulled on the belt, tweaking her arms, and causing her shoulder joints to shriek with the pain. Unable to use her arms to balance or hold the banister, it was difficult to walk and impossible to run.
Through the open door, the clock in the sitting room showed ten to four. Tom would be starting his round of golf. Flora was at work and Maddy might be strolling in the park at the end of Cliveden Road. It was a beautiful afternoon to be out in the fresh air.
When they reached the kitchen, he made her sit on the sofa. This room was a particularly dangerous place to loiter with a psychopath. (Was it Bill or Mark who had identified Prosser’s tendencies?) Every drawer was stuffed with weapons. Knives, scissors, screwdrivers. Tom kept some of his power tools in the utility room and Prosser knew everything that went on here, so he would surely know that, too.
It is a well-documented phenomenon that hostages stand a better chance of survival if they can form a bond with their captors. Anna had been fascinated by an article about it in one of the ‘Sundays’, following a plane hijacking. She gave it a try. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea? Or a drink of lemonade? You look rather hot.’
He ignored her questions, staring around the room. ‘Why did you have to change everything? Spoil it.’
Before she could ask what he meant, the phone rang, making them both jump. She wondered how her heart could be pounding so fast, without bursting. The answer-machine cut in and she listened for a familiar voice but whoever it was rang off without leaving a message. Prosser sat at the table, rubbing his hands back and forth across the wooden surface, staring at the wall opposite. Now and again he glanced at her and once he checked that the belt was still tight around her wrists. Her shoulders were aching so much that she wanted to scream. The only way she found to ease the pain was to lean forward, allowing her trussed arms to rest on her lower back.
After about five minutes Prosser stood up. ‘OK. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going outside now a
nd I need the keys to your car. And don’t mess about, because I’ve got this.’ He drew a Sabatier knife from the wooden knife-block and she wished that Flora hadn’t bought them such a murderous house-warming present.
A germ of an idea had formed during that five minutes in the kitchen. It was essential to leave a clue. Some indication that she hadn’t gone shopping and that something unusual had happened. Her handbag was on the corner of the table. She always took it with her, even on a trip down to Cwm Bont. If Tom came in and saw it, he would be sure to know that she was in trouble.
‘I’ll bring your handbag. That would be a dead give-away, wouldn’t it?’
He was behind her, tugging the belt again, giving her no opportunity to take anything or leave anything behind. He shut the back door, locking it with the keys from her handbag, leaving the house exactly as she would leave if she’d gone shopping.
The car keys were in the ignition. Prosser pushed her into the driver’s seat, her torso thrust forward to accommodate her bound arms, then he hurried around to the passenger’s side and climbed in next to her, shutting and locking the doors. He tossed her bag on to the back seat. Finally he untied her wrists. Her shoulders hurt and she gasped as she flexed them, attempting to restore the blood flow and ease the aching. Her wrists, too, throbbed and there were red ruts where the leather had bitten into the flesh.
‘Look, Mr Prosser, can’t we sort this out? Why don’t you go home and we’ll forget all about it? It’s not too late.’ Pathetic, but she had to give it a try.
He still had the knife but now he was holding it vertically, in his left hand, the point resting on the dashboard. His other arm was draped across the back of her seat and she could smell the sweat from his armpit. ‘You must think I’m thick.’
While they were inside the house, there had been a glimmer of hope. Now, as he instructed her to start the car and drive away, he had taken command and, from here on, they would be playing by his rules. At that moment and involuntarily, she became detached from her body, hovering somewhere just above her own head. It was interesting and, more to the point, felt much safer up here, as if she were watching a film at the cinema. This had happened once before. On the day that her mother died, she’d spent most of it looking down at Anna Wren as she spoke her lines and went through the motions. Later, when she was ready to talk about it, the doctor had explained that this literal detachment was a common defence strategy and it might well have saved her from suffering a complete breakdown.