Everything in the Garden

by Jo Verity

  27

  As they drove down the lane towards the road, she remembered Tom asking her to fill up with petrol at the supermarket. The gauge was into the red sector which gave them about forty miles’ driving, a fact they’d established when forced to soft-pedal it home from a day out in petrol-less mid-Wales. If Prosser intended to go far, they would have to stop for fuel. Then she would get her chance.

  ‘Left at the bottom.’ They were heading away from the village.

  Firmly back inside her body now, rivulets of perspiration trickled down between her breasts and across her back, soaking into the waistband of her trousers. Occasionally, Prosser dragged a sleeve across his crimson face. His left hand was resting on his knee, the knife dangling down between his legs. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Deep breaths did nothing to calm her, and made her throat even drier.

  A Land Rover came towards them and she flicked the headlights at the oncoming vehicle, but they must have been invisible in the strong sunlight and there was no response from the driver. ‘Naughty, naughty.’ Prosser brought the point of the knife round to rest on her thigh. He twisted in the seat, staring at her, then raised the knife, tapping it on her left earring. The noise, so close to her ear, sounded like a cracked bell. ‘We’ve had some fun with these, haven’t we?’

  At the T-junction, she automatically indicated right, towards Ludlow, the direction she usually took. He reached across, shaking his head, and pushed the indicator the other way. She had imagined that he would want to get as far away from Pen Craig as possible but this road would lead them back on themselves. There was a fair volume of traffic but she had no way of alerting passing vehicles to her predicament. Even if anyone recognised her, they would assume she was giving someone a lift, not being kidnapped by a homicidal maniac.

  They had travelled less than a mile when he muttered ‘Next left.’ Once again his instruction caught her out. They turned up the winding road, past the spot where she and Arthur had waited for Bill to fetch them. After their adventure they had revisited this valley and she knew that the road narrowed, eventually petering out into a muddy track that followed the stream to its source. The sides of this valley were steep and wooded, and it was cooler in the shade.

  Then she knew where he was taking her.

  ‘Swing out wide and drop down into first,’ he instructed.

  She slewed the car into the lane, half-hidden between the high hedges. The wheels spun on the loose gravel but she managed to avoid stalling. The house loomed up, drab and ugly amongst the summer trees. An assortment of animals still dangled from the fence, like bunches of dried seaweed. ‘Up through the gate and in there.’ He pointed at a corrugated tin shed.

  So this was it. She wasn’t going to stop for petrol or signal to a passing motorist or scatter a trail behind her, like Hansel and Gretel. When those doors closed, the car would be invisible from the road below and from the footpath that dropped down to the left of the house. Once inside, there would be no trace of her.

  Slumped in the seat, sweating and shivering, she waited. He came round to the driver’s side and pulled her out, binding her wrists again. The floor of the shed was uneven, strewn with debris and, as he pushed her towards the house, she caught her leg on a piece of angle-iron, the metal gouging the flesh where it was thinnest, across the ankle bone. The pain was sickening. Unable to use her arms to steady herself, she fell heavily, grazing both knees through her thin trousers.

  Everything was hurting. Her arms, tied behind her back, made it impossible for her to push herself up off the ground. Her shoulder and upper arm had taken her weight as she fell across a pile of bricks. Something sharp was sticking into her hip and the wound on her ankle was bleeding, a warm stickiness running across her foot.

  He hauled her to her feet and shoved her out of the shed, shutting the doors. The clang of the metal rang out across the valley, lost amongst the noises of a working day in the summer countryside.

  The bleeding slowed but her foot was too painful to take her full weight and she used her toes to balance. Her left side was hurting from shoulder to hip. She hobbled down the moss-covered path towards the back door of the wretched house. Reaching it became her immediate objective. In the house at least she would be able to sit down and have a drink of cool water. He must allow her that.

  They entered through a corrugated iron lean-to. To the one side there stood a crazed Belfast sink, the inside stained yellowish-brown and criss-crossed with spiders’ webs. A few tools and bamboo canes leaned against the wall. Flies buzzed, trapped between window-pane and filthy net curtains. It smelled of rubber and dry rot.

  There was a step up into the dingy kitchen beyond. This was a large room but it had only one window, looking on to a dense holly hedge. Net curtains veiled this window, further limiting the daylight. Set back in a recess was a cast iron range, with easy chairs, facing each other on either side. A pine table and four chairs occupied the centre of the room. Against the far wall stood a sideboard, the top crammed with photographs in tarnished frames. A family’s history captured behind flyblown glass. One of the pictures showed an elderly woman, with Prosser, easily recognisable, standing stiffly behind her chair. Then, hanging on the wall behind the sideboard, another picture caught her eye. It was faded sepia but the building silhouetted against the sky was unmistakably Pen Craig.

  He shoved her roughly and she collapsed onto one of the dining chairs. ‘Can I have a drink?’ She cleared her throat. It was the first time that she’d spoken since they had left the yard at home and her voice came out cracked and feeble.

  There was another sink in this kitchen and a few glasses stood, upside down, on the draining board. The sound of running water brought the saliva to her mouth and made the few seconds that he took to bring the drink to the table unbearable. He sat next to her, tilting the glass against her lips. It was difficult to drink like this and some of the water trickled onto the table. He kept the glass against her mouth until she couldn’t drink any more and, gasping, twisted her head away.

  She knew she should get angry. Try to regain some authority. Fight or flight. The phrase looped round and round in her brain. She couldn’t walk, so flight was certainly out of the question. Fighting words were the only weapons at her disposal.

  ‘This is silly … We both know…’ What did they both know? ‘We both know that you didn’t intend this to happen. It was an accident.’ How was she doing? ‘In fact it was my fault. I shouldn’t have come upstairs.’ He didn’t interrupt and she kept going. ‘You weren’t doing any harm, after all, were you? Just having a bit of a look round.’

  While she was talking, he pulled her bra from his pocket and laid it out on the table. It was one that had gone in with the coloureds. Pale pink, the elastic wrinkled, it reminded her of a skinned rabbit. He went to the sideboard, took out one of the small cutlery drawers and brought it to the table. It was filled with neatly folded underwear.

  ‘Is it all mine?’

  He smirked. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ He set the items out in rows, flattening them with his hand. They were mostly bras and knickers, black, white or navy blue. A red thong and a coffee-coloured lacy bra stood out from the rest and he dangled these from his fingers. ‘Mrs Redwood has the nicest things.’

  He returned to the sideboard and removed another drawer. This one was full of bric-a-brac. Scissors, beads, spectacles, pens, keys. Amongst it she spotted a shard of her shattered pottery. He held it up, turning it between his index finger and thumb. ‘I’m a bit of a collector.’ He spoke without emotion, as if he were giving a lecture to the Women’s Institute. ‘Everyone should have a hobby, don’t you think?’

  He replaced the drawers then wound the clock which took place of honour on the cluttered mantelpiece, checking it against his watch. Of course, he must come here regularly, to add to his collections and to wind the clock. How odd that he hadn’t sold the house or come to live here. Judging from the state of it, his wife never set foot in the place. Mrs P. wouldn’t have put up w
ith the filthy windows and the dust. Where did she think he was this afternoon? Shouldn’t he be at the Post Office? No, of course not. It was Wednesday – half-day closing.

  While they’d been in the car, she’d literally been in the driving seat. There was the chance of crashing into another car or swerving into a ditch. She’d done neither because she had assumed that the situation would resolve itself without putting their lives at risk. It hadn’t. Prosser had taken one wrong decision after another and made the situation untenable. He wouldn’t get away with it but she might be dead by the time he was apprehended. (She was already employing criminal terminology). Dead. Or raped. Or dead and raped.

  Her attempts at negotiation were getting nowhere. The mere sound of her voice appeared to irritate him. She could think of nothing to say that might cause him to modify his stance but, in any case, he was in too deep. She was here on his territory and his terms but, for the first time, he looked unsure of himself. When he removed his heavy jacket, his pale blue shirt was darkened with huge sweat patches beneath the arms and across the back. He paced the kitchen, pausing to twitch the curtain aside and peer obliquely out of the window. At one point he went back through the outhouse but she knew he would be standing in the doorway, blocking her escape route.

  He returned, catching her beneath her arms and hauling her to her feet. ‘Come on.’ He guided her to a door in the corner which she had failed to notice, and lifted the latch. The door opened away from him, swinging over a black void. He flicked the light on, illuminating a flight of stone steps, leading down into a cellar.

  ‘Please don’t make me go down there.’

  ‘I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘At least undo my arms, so I can balance.’

  He was behind her and, although she couldn’t see his face, she sensed his indecision. He loosened the belt. Her numb hands burned as the blood flowed back into them, the same pain that she’d felt, as a child, when sensation returned to snow-frozen feet. If she bent her knees, it was possible to edge down the irregular stairs, one hand against the rough wall and the other reaching down to steady herself on the steps.

  The walls of the cellar were lined with wooden racks, indicating that the place had once been used for food storage. One bay of shelving was stacked with empty jars and bottles, waiting for jam or cider. A few wooden crates were piled in the corner. He stood at the top, looking down on her. ‘Cold?’ It was the first sign of consideration and she rushed to take advantage of it.

  ‘Yes. And I need the loo. And a drink.’

  He shut the door, his boots sounding on the flagstones as he moved around overhead.

  The house was set into the slope of the hillside and the cellar appeared to be located beneath the front of it. It was window-less but there were several ventilation bricks, about six inches below ceiling level, giving a hint of daylight and some air movement. She heard pipes vibrating somewhere, as he ran the water, then his returning footsteps.

  The door opened again and he tossed down three cushions. They were heavy, covered in threadbare chintz and she guessed they were from a sofa. Next came two grey blankets, the type found in army surplus shops, and a dark brown, hand-knitted cardigan. The cardigan smelled of mothballs but she was shivering and pulled it on over her short-sleeved shirt, her arms stiff and painful. He disappeared again, then came down the steps with a bucket and a grubby polythene container of, what she assumed, was water. He set these down and took a packet of digestive biscuits and a roll of Softmints from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Light on or off? It’s up to you. A word of advice, though. Don’t waste your energy trying to get out. This’ll be locked,’ he nodded towards the cellar door, ‘And there’s no one within earshot. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow.’

  ‘On. Leave the light on.’

  He left the cellar and pulled the door shut behind him. She heard a padlock snap on the far side of the door and held her breath until she was sure that the light was going to stay on.

  Nothing unspeakable had happened. Her ankle, knees and the bruised muscles in her left arm were accidental injuries. If she hadn’t tripped in the shed, all she’d have to worry about would be sore wrists. He hadn’t touched her or done anything horrible, apart from kidnap her. He was a pervert but not a murderer. Yet.

  Six-thirty. Tom would be home now, waiting for her to get back with the shopping. When would he start to worry? When he was hungry, probably. Another hour? First he’d go and ask Jenny and Celia if they’d seen her. All the shops in Ludlow shut by six o’clock, except the supermarket. Without the car, he’d ask Mark to give him a lift. There was only one route into town and, once there, they’d check the car park at Tesco. When they didn’t find the car, they’d drive back home, then he’d ring the police to report her missing and the search would begin.

  She lined up four crates and placed the cushions on top, to form a bed. It felt good to be doing something at last. She put the bucket in the far corner and placed the water container, along with the biscuits and mints, on one of the empty shelves. Prosser hadn’t brought her a cup but a jar would do. Would he keep his word and return tomorrow? To be on the safe side, she’d better ration the biscuits. She ran her thumb down the packet, counting the ridges. Twenty-four. She and Tom had eaten lunch just after midday, over six hours ago, and, although she didn’t feel hungry, she ate one biscuit.

  Occasionally, in the press, there were reports of perfectly nice women, who walked out on husband and children, saying that they were going to post a letter or have coffee with a friend. Would Tom have a problem convincing the police that she wasn’t the kind of woman to walk out of her life? Then she remembered the Travel Lodge and wondered whether, perhaps, she was.

  The biscuit tasted good and she allowed herself a second, hoping it would settle her stomach which had been feeling queasy from the moment she’d encountered Prosser. When she took a sip from the container, to rinse away the crumbs sticking around her teeth, the water smelled of plastic. Never mind. It was vital to keep up the fluids.

  Even with the cardigan on, it was chilly down here and the wool already felt slightly damp. She held her hands up to the light, finding comfort in the heat from the bare bulb.

  Wrapping a blanket around herself, she lay down on the improvised bed. The light shone straight into her eyes. Even when she closed them, it penetrated her eyelids. The need to urinate made it impossible to relax and she went to the bucket. Squatting over it, she held on to the shelf, steadying herself, trying not to think about the capacity of the bucket. There was no toilet paper but she would have to manage without, for now. Tomorrow she would work out how to clean herself.

  Wrapped up in one blanket, the other pulled over her head, she lay on the musty cushions. An earring, forced into her flesh by the unyielding cushion, cut into her cheek and she took them both out, placing them on the floor next to her bed. She was cold and hurting all down her left side. Her right ankle was swelling up. Maybe it was broken. Her scalp itched and she regretted not washing her hair that morning. Her mouth felt disgusting and her knickers were damp. But it wasn’t so bad if she squeezed out of her body and sat up on the shelf, amongst the dusty jam jars.

  28

  She pushed the blanket back from her face. The cellar looked exactly as it had done at eleven o’clock, midnight, one-thirty and quarter to three. Now it was gone seven and search parties would be out, looking for her.

  During the night she had shoved her makeshift bed against the shelving, where she felt less vulnerable. The blanket over her head, shielding her eyes from the light, had an unexpected advantage. Her warm breath, contained in the resulting cocoon, helped keep her body temperature up. It also enhanced the mothball smell that permeated the cardigan but that was the least of her worries.

  Her prison was roughly six metres by four metres, its brick walls patchy with flaking whitewash. The floor, too, was brickwork but crude and uneven, not at all like the beautiful floor that Tom had made for her. In one corner there was a drain
, covered with an iron grid. The floorboards of the room above formed the ceiling and the single light bulb hung, by a twisted flex, from one of the joists.

  The arm and shoulder on which she’d fallen were blotched with navy blue and crimson bruises but it was her ankle, swollen and discoloured, that was the most painful. She decided to spare a little water to clean the wound and to wash herself. Surely when Prosser came back he would refill the container. Needing a cloth of some sort and reluctant to sacrifice her clothing, she tugged at one of the cushions. The cover split and she removed it, giving two decent sized squares of fabric and a few narrow strips. She draped one of the larger pieces over the bucket and ripped one of the strips in half.

  Her efforts to wipe away the dried blood, revealed a deep gouge below her ankle bone and a triangular flap of skin folded back. It was a mess and needed stitching. She had a feeling that, if she looked hard enough, she might see the bone. Whatever had caused the wound must have been filthy and she regretted failing to get a tetanus jab after she’d cut her foot in the kitchen.

  Taking another scrap of fabric, she wiped her face and hands. It did little to remove the grime but the simple act of moistening her skin was invigorating. Without a brush, there was nothing she could do with her tangled hair and she tugged it back, plaiting it to keep it away from her face.

  Breakfast consisted of two biscuits and a few gulps of water, swished around in her mouth, to flush out the crumbs. Her teeth felt stale and coated but rubbing them with the cloth helped. Finally she bit one of the mints in half and sucked it, trying to imagine that it was toothpaste.