Bunker (3 page)

Slowly, I get to my feet. I'm alone. I'm free. I can get away. I walk round the car, taking care with every step. Maybe the key's still in the ignition. I slowly press the door handle until the driver's door opens with a loud click. Hell! I stand there for a moment, drawing air in sharply through my teeth, and looking in all directions again. Thank God, still no one anywhere in sight. I open the driver's door fully, lean forward and into the car. Where's the ignition? Out of sight under the steering wheel. I put my hand through the spokes in the steering wheel and grope for the ignition, feel the longish slit.

Damn, no key.

At that moment I hear something crack behind me. Leaning half over the steering wheel, I stare straight ahead, I daren't move. I feel sweat at the back of my neck and running down my backbone. I'm still in the trap, that bastard must be behind me.

Slowly, I straighten up, duck my head as I clamber out, take a step backwards, look cautiously around. Nothing! Just the insects humming and the birds twittering, no human being.

I have to get away from here. Along the forest path, the
way he brought me in the Fiesta? He'll be sure to search that first, and with the car he's bound to catch up with me. That's no good. I must cut through the forest. Find a road or a house.

Where's he gone? Never mind. I must just get out of here before he turns up again. I force my way through the brambles and undergrowth, going further into the forest. I run, I stumble, I jump up. I have no idea where I'm going, I'm just running, running away. I see a path through the trees, it's almost overgrown. My blouse catches on thorns. I trip over a root, tear my tights, scramble up again, wipe the dirt off my knees and run on. I keep looking round, but no one's following me. The path leads along the bank of a dried-up pond. A big, black wooden house beside it. I cross an old wooden door lying over a muddy stream. The door wobbles as I cross it. I go up to the house. Its rusty iron door is open just a crack. I make my way in. Now I'm the other side of the door.

The light of the setting sun falls through the doorway into the room. Casts golden light on a narrow strip of floor and the wall beside it. The rest of the room is dimly lit. I stand there waiting. It will take my eyes some time to get used to the darkness. Slowly I start to make things out. A large room without any windows, with a low, narrow brick wall across it, beginning in the middle of one wall. My glance moves
over the projection to the darkness beyond and the opposite wall. There's a closed door on the other side of the room. Part of a wooden ladder to the right, beside the door. Its top rungs emerge from an open trapdoor to the cellar below. I lean over and look down. I see large crates and thick pipes going up to the ceiling. Everything is all jumbled up. Nothing's tidy, the place looks deserted. A wooden staircase rises to my right. My eyes follow the steps up. The stairs end at another trapdoor. The back of the room is in gloom, a little light coming through from the upper storey. A bright strip around the edge of the trapdoor picks out its position on the dark ceiling.

I hear footsteps above. Someone's up there. My eyes try to follow the invisible person. The weight of his footsteps sends dust trickling through the cracks between the wooden planks in many places. Motes drifting slowly down, floating in the narrow strip of light shining through the crack of the open doorway. I look up, transfixed. Stare at the dark ceiling until my eyes hurt. A sharp burning pain makes me close them.

Who's up there? I'll have to ask if he can help me. Will he take me to a phone box, or maybe he even has a phone here? I must call the police. But suppose it's
him?
No, he'll be searching for me in his car, going back along the road. He'd
think I could never be silly enough to run into the middle of the forest without knowing where I was going. But suppose it
is
him after all? There's still time to get away from here. Hell, what am I to do?

I pluck up all my courage. The bottom step of the stairs creaks when I try it. I stop, hold my breath, looking up in suspense. I wait. Nothing happens. No more footsteps up there. Silent as the grave. Did whoever's there hear me? Is that why it's so quiet?

Nonsense! Don't be so stupid! The next steps don't make any sound at all. There's a cast iron catch fitted to the underneath of the trapdoor. I hesitate for a moment, then I take hold of the catch and push the trapdoor up. It's very heavy; I push at it with my head until I can open it a crack. I peer through the gap. The legs of chairs and a table in the middle of the room, to the left an old bedstead with a faded flower pattern painted on it, to the right a chest of drawers and a wardrobe with round feet. No one in sight.

But I can only see part of the room through the crack. I raise the trapdoor further. Tilting my head back, I reach up and push it open as far as I can reach, rubbing against the rough wood, my hair snags on it. I still can't see enough, I can hardly hold the trapdoor open. I take one more step, push the door further up until my head is halfway through the
opening. Now at last I can see more. I realize I'm getting out of breath. The trapdoor is pressing against the nape of my neck. The bloody thing's so heavy.

‘So there you are!'

I lose my footing on the stairs. I stumble, I slip. Let go of the catch of the trapdoor, hit my head on the steps, stay lying at the foot of the stairs. Everything goes black around me.

A paramedic comes through the metal front door of the mill, which is wide open, walking backwards, carefully placing one foot behind the other. His jacket is bright red in the glaring floodlights, the reflective strips on the back of it are radiant white. Little by little, the stretcher is brought into the light. The legs of the person lying on the stretcher appear first. The paramedic at the front casts a long shadow on the body lying under the blanket.

The second paramedic appears. Nodding his head back and forth, calling instructions like ‘Careful!' and ‘Over to the left a bit', he guides the first paramedic out of the house, over the old wooden door lying on the ground, and along the forest track to the ambulance. The stretcher is pushed into the vehicle, the door is closed with a loud metallic bang.

I'm lying there with my eyes closed. Listening to music, soft, pleasant, especially the singer's voice. I like his husky tone. It's an oldie, I must have listened to that song thousands of times before. I start humming along softly to the tune. The quilt is wrapped around me, I feel good. I stretch, slip further under the quilt, pull it up to my eyes. It's too short, now my feet are sticking out. Not that it's cold, but covered up is more comfortable. I cross my feet and rub the sole of one over the back of the other. I clasp the toes of one foot around the toes of the other. Slowly I run my hand over my body. I'm naked!

All at once the pleasant sensations of the last few minutes are gone. I know I didn't undress myself! I open my eyes.
A stabbing pain. I see the wooden ceiling of the room, but the room itself is entirely strange to me. Where am I? Don't panic – think! The last thing I remember is the bloody trapdoor…and that guy. He was standing behind it. I was scared to death, and then I don't remember any more. What happened? Did he put me on this bed? Did that man undress me, put me on the bed and cover me up?

I sit up in bed and look at the room. It's the one with the upper trapdoor leading to it. How long have I been asleep? My watch has gone as well.

I look around me.

He's sitting on the chair, arms on the table, his head buried in them. He's asleep. I draw my legs up and clasp my arms tightly around them. I crouch like that at the far end of the bed. Now what? Quick! Think! Come on, girl, do something! Fight or flight? Go on, make up your mind! I look at the trapdoor. I look round the room again. That guy has fallen asleep sitting at the table. Fast asleep, I can hear his heavy, noisy breathing.

Flight, then. But how? First I need my clothes, they must be lying around somewhere. He's fast asleep, so get moving!

Cautiously, I put the quilt back, very slowly, like in slow motion. My neck is all tense, my eye is swollen. It feels numb; I can't see properly. No sound. It bothers me, being
naked. I work my way to the edge of the bed, sit on it, can't see my clothes anywhere.

I can't get out of the place like this, with nothing on. I need my blouse at least, or a towel. I can't take the quilt if I'm going to run for it, it would just get in the way. Maybe my things are in the wardrobe?

I feel for the floor with my feet, slowly stand up. Start moving cautiously. On tiptoe. The floor gives slightly under me, creaking. I stop. Oh, come on, pull yourself together, the man's dead to the world, he can't hear you! I bite my lower lip, try to stop myself panting. I walk on. When I reach the table I stop for a moment, looking down at his head. His hair is cut very short. His breath is rattling a bit; when you listen hard it's almost like snoring. He's sleeping deeply, I can do it! I go on moving cautiously towards the wardrobe. The key is in the lock. What a bit of luck! I mustn't make any noise, that's all. It's hard to turn the key. I know these old things, my parents had an ancient wardrobe like this in their bedroom. The damn thing gave me no end of trouble when I was snooping about. In time, however, practice taught me how to open it without any sound at all, you just had to put your hand against the door and push at the right moment. If you didn't do that, the mechanism sprang open with a deafening click.

I cautiously turn the key, a little more, a little more again.

Crack!

Was that loud? No, it's just that I was concentrating so hard it seemed to me terribly loud.

The wardrobe door slowly swings opens. Now it's slightly ajar. I can't hear him snoring any more. I daren't move. My pulse-beat is thudding in my head. I can't tell whether the guy is still asleep or not. I stand there, rigid, listening to the booming in my head.

And I feel something behind my back, or at least I think so. Not a touch, not pain. It's his eyes. I can sense it. I'm sure that guy is staring at me the way I'm staring at the wardrobe door.

Weren't things bad enough already? I've been beaten up and kidnapped. Now I'm standing in front of him naked. I let my head sink against the wardrobe door.

I wait. Nothing happens.

Oh, hell, I'm not having him gawp at my bum any longer. This is too much! I turn around slowly, trying to protect myself from his gaze as best I can with my arms. Don't let him see how scared you are!

Our eyes meet briefly, that's all. Then, still sitting on the chair, he turns away.

‘Get dressed. Your clothes are in the wardrobe.'

I can't think straight, don't know what to do. I just want to get away from here. Get out of the place somehow, get away. What am I going to do? I'd like to march over and hit him the way he hit me. I'd like to go for him with both fists. That bastard, that nutcase!

Of course, that's it! He won't be expecting me to defend myself. This is my chance. I'm not letting you finish me off, you bastard! I must think it all out very precisely, the slightest mistake and things will go wrong. So how do I start?

Keep calm. Breathe deeply, head up, keep perfectly upright as you walk towards him. Don't show any fear. Best if I walk in a very feminine way. Like a model on the catwalk, step by step, one foot in front of the other, swinging my hips. A little sexiness wouldn't be a bad idea. I hope it works, I hope I can carry it off. Although, might he attack me? Guys like him fancy that sort of thing. But at the same time it scares them. I must stop right beside him and stand there. My pussy level with his face. What will he do? I bet he'll be all confused, embarrassed, stare down at his clasped hands. I bet he'll feel uncomfortable with me so close to him, naked. He's the kind who doesn't dare do it unless you're defenceless. If I'm asleep he'll feel strong, he'll bring himself off staring at my naked body.

So now what, arsehole? I imagine him beginning to sweat,
breathing in deeply, a loud noise. I have to be quite relaxed, make him feel how I relish my superiority. I must act fast. Mustn't give him time. Move fast or it will go wrong. I'll grab his head and turn it towards me. Bury his face in my belly. Hold him so he can't breathe. Press him to me good and hard. Press with all my might until he goes blue in the face and I can't hear him breathing any more. No mercy if he whimpers and begs. He doesn't deserve any. He'll try gasping for air, try to fight back. He'll wriggle like a fish out of water. If I press hard enough he won't have a chance; I just have to hold him close to myself. And I must do it all very fast, I must take him by surprise. When he's gasping I'll force his head back with all my might and shout, ‘You're not hitting me again, get it?' I can imagine his swollen face, his skin wet with sweat and flushed. He'll look at me, terrified, out of little slits of eyes. Begging for mercy.

He stands up. Goes to the trapdoor, opens it, climbs down. Ignoring me. The trapdoor closes. I'm in here alone, I hesitated too long, I'm still standing in front of the wardrobe, its door half open behind my back, both arms held protectively over my body. I let my arms fall. Go over to the bed and drop on it. I pull the quilt over me and close my eyes, stabs of pain rising from the nape of my neck to my head.

There he is again, the child behind the tree. I see the little boy before me, a skinny little boy materializing out of nothing. I go up to him, I don't know him, yet he's as familiar to me as the woodland where I find myself now. I know him by his bloodstained ear. The boy's face changes, I can't see it properly. There's something I don't like about him, it scares me. The child avoids my eyes, won't look at me, stupid brat! He waves his arms about. Making signals. What does he want? The movements calm down, begin to make more sense, lines, circles, letters. Yes, he's tracing letters in the air with one finger. Writing in the air. Secret conversations, the kind we used to have as children. Painting letters in the air, or writing them on each other's backs and then asking, ‘Go on, what was that word? Guess!' OK, I'll play along. I try to concentrate. I recognize a letter Y. And then a letter C. Or is it? He shakes his head energetically, starts again. An O? He nods. Then a U. He nods again. ‘YOU.' Good, on we go. He writes in the air again, fast, much too fast. I can't decipher it. He writes more letters. I can't make out the word. He loses interest in the game, turns away, runs off into the woods. Wait, wait for me! I run after him, try to follow. But there's no one to be seen in the woods any more.