The Evil that Men Do (30 page)

I opened the door, but couldn't seem to get out. Ben swore some more. ‘God, are all women stupid as lice? Seat belt, bitch!'

I fumbled for it, released it, and tumbled out of the car on to the unforgiving ground. If I'd had any vague idea of getting away, it was dashed. I could hardly crawl, much less run. Never again, I thought sourly as I struggled on excruciatingly painful knees to get to my feet, would I believe the stories about the plucky heroines who survive untold abuse and still manage to use some form of judo on the bad guy and then flee for their lives. Another illusion destroyed.

It was beginning to drizzle. That, of course, added to my misery. But the cool water on my battered face, and the sharp pain of my knees, took the cobwebs away. Where in the world was Alan? And what had Ben done with Fred? And  . . . no, I couldn't bear to think about poor little Watson.

‘Going to take all day, bitch? I'm getting wet!'

I bit back the obvious retort and managed to stand upright, clinging to the car. There was nothing wrong with me, I tried to tell myself, beyond some scratches and bruises and those knees, which would stop setting off nerve explosions any time now.

‘Not quite ready to run the marathon, are we? That's too bad, because we're going for a walk. Hurry up!' He strode off.

I didn't have my stick. I didn't have an umbrella. I didn't have anything at all except a grim determination to put one foot in front of the other as long as I had to. And oh, sudden bright thought! The rain was turning the dust of the road into mud, beautiful mud that would take beautiful footprints. They wouldn't last long if the rain started coming down harder, but with any luck at all Alan would be here soon.

And then we turned off the road, towards the field. There was a stile.

‘I can't,' I said flatly.

Ben was far ahead. He turned around and glared at me. ‘Did you hear me? Hurry up!'

‘I can't. I can't climb that stile. I have artificial knees and they won't do it.'

He came thundering back and pulled back a fist. I looked him straight in the eye. ‘You can hit me as much as you want. I still can't climb over that fence.'

If profanity really did turn the air blue, the cloud would have been enough to pinpoint our location for Alan. Unfortunately, all it did was lacerate my sensibilities. I've been known to swear myself, on those rare occasions when I was too upset to care, but I made a solemn vow right then to watch my mouth from now on.

In the end he gave up. I was too heavy to be boosted over, and it was against his nature to help a woman do anything, anyway.

‘It means the long way round, then. Serves you right for being stubborn. Hurry up!'

He returned to the road winding down into the valley, a road where we could leave those lovely footprints.

It was a nightmare walk. I don't suppose it was even a mile, but it was downhill, which anyone with bad knees knows is much harder than up. I had nothing to give me any support, and I was so afraid of losing my balance that I walked a lot more slowly than Ben wanted. I would even have taken his arm if he'd offered, but of course he didn't, just raced ahead of me and turned back every now and then to fling abuse my way. He was very sure I wouldn't try to escape, and he was absolutely right.

Stumbling along in his wake, I wondered if there was anything else I could leave for Alan, by way of a trail of breadcrumbs. It would be lovely if I had a nice breakable string of beads, but I almost never wore beads any more, except for the pearls Alan had given me as a wedding present, and I would be da— I would be very reluctant to break that string, even if I had them on, which of course I didn't. Buttons? Just one, holding up my jeans, and it was riveted on. I always carried plenty of tissues, but they were in the car, in my bag. So was everything else that might be useful. Blast! (I congratulated myself mentally on my choice of language.)

I trudged on, digging my chilled hands into my pockets. And I was rewarded.

I had forgotten Watson's biscuits. Light in colour and shaped like little bones, they would be very visible against the mud of the verge. And as far as I could tell, they were so hard that little short of Noah's flood would cause them to disintegrate. I looked up to make sure Ben didn't see me, and dropped one, and a few yards on, another.

I had nearly run out when we came to a bend in the road and there, unexpectedly, was the farmhouse. Or
a
farmhouse. It certainly looked deserted, and the shutters were drawn across most of the windows. Ben was waiting for me, and dragged me roughly to the door. ‘Come into my parlour, my dear!'

I tried not to think of the obvious parallel.

One shutter was hanging off a glassless window, providing a little murky light to the front room. The first thing I saw was Fred, trussed to a chair with his head drooping forward. I managed to bite back a cry. He isn't dead, I kept thinking. He wouldn't have had to be tied up if he was dead. But his face was a nasty mess, and he didn't stir.

I wanted to go over to him, but Ben had tight hold of my arm. ‘Now isn't that touching! She wants to make sure her toy boy is well enough to service her again. I wouldn't be too sure of that, my dear. He might not do too well in that department for a while. Now, what shall I do with you? I wasn't planning on so many guests today, so my cleaner hasn't been. You'll have to forgive the mess.'

He shoved me towards a door at the back of the room. In the near-darkness, and without my glasses, I could barely see. I banged my knee against a low table. This time I couldn't stifle a cry of pain.

‘Oh, so very sorry, Your Highness. Must be more careful, mustn't I? I won't get full price for damaged merchandise.'

If he wanted me to believe he planned to hold me for ransom, it didn't work. Whatever his plans were, I was sure they were more violent than that.

The door opened. ‘In here!'

‘Here' was presumably a bedroom, though the shutters were tightly closed and I could see almost nothing. The atmosphere was close and musty, and I thought I heard a scurrying that augured rats. I was thrown unceremoniously down on a surface that gave under me, with a creak of rusty springs. It smelled of mould and other things I didn't care to identify. The door was slammed shut and I heard something heavy moving across the floor outside. A chest or something, I guessed, pulled across the door in lieu of a lock. Then the very final slam of a door.

Ben had left, and I was well and truly imprisoned.

THIRTY-TWO

F
or a few minutes I simply lay there and allowed tears of self-pity to spill out. Then as I began to sniffle, and realized I had nothing suitable for blowing my nose, I told myself it was no fun to cry when one couldn't mop up. Besides, I would only add that well-known headache to all my other woes.

Anyway, self-pity was not only unattractive, it was inapt. This was all my fault. I couldn't blame anyone else for my predicament. I had been incredibly blind and stupid. So many pointers could have led me to this man as Ben. That little encounter in the church, for one, on the day I'd seemed to run into the man everywhere I went. He'd been so insistent with the vicar, so obviously looking for someone, and I'd forgotten the incident as soon as it was behind me. And even earlier today, I could have eluded him. The man had made me uneasy when he first showed up at the car. Always trust your instincts, runs the oft-repeated advice. Why on earth hadn't I simply locked the doors, called Alan, and waited for help?

Self-reproach was no more productive than tears. Here I was, and here I would almost certainly stay unless I could figure out a means of escape, so the first priority was some industrious thinking. What assets did I have, what resources that could get me out of this house?

I took inventory. Couldn't see much; very little light and no glasses. Could hear and, unfortunately, could smell and feel. One unpleasant feeling among the many that beset me was the increasingly urgent need for a bathroom. At my age, that is not a need that can be denied for very long. If I shouted to my tormentor, would he respond?

Well, no, even if he was still in the house, not if past performance was any guide. And I would all too obviously not be the first person to use this room for such a purpose.

The idea of removing my jeans was abhorrent, given what might be on the other side of that door. I could only imagine what he would do if he came in and found me half-naked. On the other hand, I couldn't even contemplate spending time in sodden and stinking clothes. Blood-soaked clothing was bad enough, but that was, as someone in a Dorothy Sayers novel once said, ‘past prayin' for'.

So I sat on the edge of the bed, removed the necessary articles of clothing as quietly as I could, located a corner, and did what I had to do. Once more, as I leaned against the wall, I heard rustling. With a shudder, I got back into my clothes and back on to the bed, with my feet up. Of course I knew that rats are not like mice, scurrying around on the floor. They'll get up on a bed just as easily as a cat. It didn't matter. My instinctive response to any sort of rodent is to put my feet up.

All right. Most of my senses were in operating condition. And exactly how much good would that do me?

Not a lot, except perhaps defensively. I could hear Ben if he came back, and maybe blockade the door  . . . no, it opened out. But I could be ready for him.

Ready with what? My handy karate chop? My Uzi? Right.

All my possible weapons, my Swiss Army knife, my heavy handbag, my phone, were back in the car. I was in pain, I was bleeding in a dozen places, and (might as well face it) I was old.

The heck with the stiff upper lip. I lay back on the disgusting bed and let the tears flow. Eventually I slept.

I don't know how long I lay dozing, but when I came back to full consciousness, the room was totally dark. Nothing shone through the chinks in the shutters. I got up, wincing at the stiff joints and the aches that had developed while I slept, and made my way to where I presumed the window to be. I moved my fingers over the glass, very carefully in case it was broken, but there was only the smooth surface, and no light at all.

It must be really late, then. I tried to remember when the sun set at this time of year. After nine, I was pretty sure, and on a sunny day the light lingered for quite a while after that.

No wonder I was hungry. And thirsty.

I wished I hadn't thought of that. Now, thinking about my thirst, it began to be all-consuming. I needed some water. I could imagine water, lovely cold water, flowing down a mountainside, cascading into a pool  . . .

And of course the thought of all that water brought to the forefront another urgent need. That one at least I could satisfy.

Having done so, I lay drearily back on the bed, the springs clashing horribly, and tried to think. My head was aching, pounding so that I couldn't seem to make my brain work. Thump, thump, thump.

It is a symptom of my distraught frame of mind that it took several minutes for me to recognize two things. One was that the sound was external, not within my own body. The other was that the rhythm was very familiar.

Those rustling noises earlier might not have been rats. Certainly no rat was tapping out SOS on the wall.

I forgot my headache, my aches, my thirst. Here was human contact! And I was willing to bet I knew what human.

I tapped back, cautiously in case Ben had returned, though I wanted to shout for joy. I knew no Morse, had no idea how to signal ‘OK, I've heard you.' But any response would convey the idea. I tapped three times, slowly. Paused. Three more times, slowly.

There was no sound from the other side of the wall, until the rustling began again. Was it just rats, after all?

No. There was a purposeful sound to the rustles. After a moment I realized, or at least I hoped, that the person on the other side had found something hard and was trying to dig through the wall that separated us.

How I wished I could see! I could help. I felt around, repelled by the smell of mould and decay all around me. The walls would almost certainly be crumbling, after all that neglect, if I could only lay my hands on  . . .

Ah. My exploring hands had found a bedpost, and it was metal. I was in a cast-iron bed. Was it too much to suppose that it had knobs?

I slid my hand up the post, only to find a curve, and then a horizontal stretch. No knobs.

Well, then, slats! The mattress had to rest on something. It was lightweight, not exactly your high-class inner-spring. I pulled it and the disgusting bedding to the floor and reached under the springs, hoping that whatever was coming off on my fingers was only rust. After breaking a couple of fingernails and stabbing myself with the point of a spring that had come loose, I found a slat, and though it might be as decayed as everything else in the house, it had supported my weight. I pulled it out from under the springs, listened, and began to attack the wall where I thought the sound was coming from.

We were lucky. Evidently, at some relatively recent point in time, the one back room in this cottage had been made into two. This was no wall of solid stone, but a flimsy partition of wood and drywall. I tried to be quiet, even though I was pretty sure Ben wasn't in the house, so progress was slow, but even gentle digs at the damp-damaged wall yielded results. I had soon created a hole big enough to put my hand in, and then I could pull away larger chunks of drywall.

The shock of touching something warm almost raised a scream, until I realized it was no rat, but a human hand.

By now I had few doubts. I put my face to the hole. ‘Jo?' It was the merest breath of sound.

‘Who are you?'

‘Dorothy. Dorothy Martin. And you're Jo Carter. You can't imagine how glad I am to  . . . well, see you isn't exactly the word, is it?'

‘Oh,
don't
make me laugh,' came the agonized whisper out of the darkness. A stifled cough or two followed.