The Winding Stair

by Millie Vigor

  What made the man think he could lock her up and keep her? What was he going to do to her, and did he think that if he kept her there long enough she would agree to stay? She had always thought him a mild and gentle man, but this new Curtis was visceral, savage. If he had planned to kidnap her, had he realized what lengths he would have to go to conceal his crime? Had he given any thought to the fact that there were things she would need and he would have to shop for? How was he going to manage that? The more Ginny mulled it over the more she thought that her imprisonment could not last long. That is, of course, unless Curtis had other plans. Was he going to kill her? No, she wouldn’t let herself think that. But then, nothing was rational here. She was in uncharted territory.

  She heard him coming down the stairs, his shoes clattering on the wooden steps. Unless he wore socks she would always have a warning of his approach. Then she heard the bolts slide back and the grunt of frustration when the door would not open. Curtis called her name. She did not answer.

  ‘Virginia, speak to me,’ he said.

  Ginny held her tongue.

  ‘Virginia, are you all right?’ There was a note of urgency in his voice. Still she did not answer. ‘Virginia, answer me. I’ve brought you some supper. Tell me you’re all right. If you don’t I shall have to break the door down.’

  Well, that would be all right, she would be able to get out then, or at least try.

  ‘Go away,’ she shouted. The chair under the door handle definitely worked. ‘I don’t want any supper, go away.’

  Curtis protested for a while, but then stopped and she heard the scuff of his feet as he went back up the stairs.

  She waited a while, thinking he might come back, but he didn’t and when a rumbling stomach told her it was a long time since she had eaten she thought maybe she shouldn’t have refused the supper he had offered. But she had found a packet of biscuits and a bottle of water on the floor beside the bed so food of a sort was available. They were Hobnobs which made her think of Bill. What wouldn’t she give to see him now? And Nancy too. How could she have even thought of her leaving the roses and making the awful phone calls? Never in a million years would she have suspected Curtis. What did he intend to do with her? He said he wanted to look after her and give her time to do all the things she wanted. But he couldn’t do that if he kept her locked up.

  She looked at the watch on her wrist. It was much later than she thought and she was tired. Keeping her boots and all her clothes on she crawled under the duvet that had been thrown on the bed and settled down to sleep. But sleep was elusive and when she finally succumbed, monsters prowled through her dreams, shadowy figures chased her, roses falling from the sky showered on her, their barbs hooking into her skin. She tossed and turned, but when a leering face, distorted and menacing, zoomed in on her, she catapulted out of bed with a cry of fear. Certain that someone was in the room with her, she sobbed as she felt for her bedside light and failed to find it. The room was not completely dark, but light was only borrowed from the glow of street lamps. There was no bedside light. And neither was anyone with her.

  Half-expecting to see Curtis, she was relieved to find the chair still blocking the door and though she was sure it was bolted, she went across the room to try it. Maybe he’d forgotten. It was a vain hope. Fruitlessly she turned the handle and groaned when the door failed to give. There was nothing for it but to go back to bed. Lying there, she wondered yet again what had made Curtis think he could imprison her. How long did he think he could keep her? Sooner or later someone would find out what he’d done and he would be arrested and put in prison.

  In the morning, having slept in all her clothes, she was already dressed and waiting when she heard the sound of Curtis coming down the stairs and sliding back the bolts, but the chair was still there and the door would not open.

  ‘What have you done? Let me in. I’ve brought your breakfast,’ said Curtis.

  Torn between fear and hunger, Ginny stalled. But she was hungry and needed to eat. She pulled the chair away and let him in.

  ‘I didn’t know what you liked so I’ve brought cereal and toast. There’s tea in the small flask. I trust you slept well.’

  ‘Why would you? You must know I didn’t,’ said Ginny. ‘I had nightmares.’

  Keeping his back to the door and his eyes upon her, Curtis put the tray he was carrying on the seat of the chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to work so I’ve brought you a flask of soup for your lunch. I’ll get supper when I come home.’

  ‘You can’t leave me here all day,’ said Ginny. ‘I’ve got work to do too. I want to go home.’

  ‘No, I want you here,’ said Curtis.

  Ginny screamed, grabbed the tray off the chair and threw it at him. As he backed away she dived after him.

  ‘Don’t leave me here.’

  But the door closed and she was too late.

  ‘I hate you, I hate you,’ she yelled as she hammered on the door.

  Exhausted after a sleep-starved night, tears came to her eyes and spilled out to run down her face. Hands sliding down the door, she collapsed in a sorry heap. She held her face in her hands and wept.

  ‘Why,’ she sobbed, ‘why are you doing this to me?’

  Gradually the tears stopped and her sobs were reduced to an occasional hiccup. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  ‘I’ve got to get out. I will get out, one way or another, I … will.’

  EIGHT

  Ginny had salvaged a piece of toast from the wreckage of her breakfast, but cornflakes lay scattered on the floor like buttercups in a meadow. Luckily, neither flask of tea or soup had broken. With nothing to do all day and hours stretching away in front of her, she decided to read a book that Curtis had brought her.

  The light given by the naked bulb was not good, but as day broke the rays of a winter sun crept through the solitary window of her prison. High up in the wall, the window was wide but not deep, the sill level with the garden. If it weren’t for the iron grill that covered it Ginny could have climbed out through it. She put down her book, pulled the chair up to the wall and stood on it to examine the bolts that secured the grill. They had been there a long time and were rusted in. Even if she had the necessary tool, there was no way she would be able to undo them. A knife might have helped but Curtis had thought of that and had given her plastic cutlery. There was no other way out but through the door, so that was the way she had to go. She would have to get past Curtis first, though, and that wasn’t going to be easy.

  She read for a while but her attention was not on it. It strayed from the words. She laid the book down and walked.

  Eight steps, turn, eight steps back, turn again.

  Had anyone missed her yet? There would be no food for Smudge and no doubt he would go to Nancy to be fed. Would Nancy wonder why the cat was starving? Would she think I’d run away again and dismiss me for a fool? Ginny thought.

  Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn again.

  I’ve a book to finish. It won’t get done while I’m in here. I’ve got to get out. Curtis can’t keep me. There are things I need that he can’t shop for.

  Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn again.

  So the day dragged on. As the sun rose in the sky, Ginny saw how its rays slanted through her window to dance on her prison floor. Then as it moved on, the room grew chilly and dark. Alternately she walked or read her book. Surely Curtis must soon be home.

  She heard his feet on the stairs, the rattle of china as he brought her supper. She heard the squeak of iron as he slid back the bolts. The door began to open. It opened wider and Ginny, standing behind it, threw her full weight against it. There was a crash, the sound of breaking china, the thump of a body hitting the floor and an agonized bellow of wrath.

  Ginny grabbed the door and pulled it open. Curtis lay on the floor in a mess of gravy and broken dishes. This was her chance, she leapt, but he was too quick and caught her by the ankle, his grip strong. She kicked
hard but he held her tight and when he got both hands to her ankle and twisted it, she lost her balance and fell. Lying across him, she reached for and seized his hair, and, long enough to get both hands in it, she twisted till he cried out. He let her go then grabbed her arms and spread them wide. It brought her close to him and with his face only inches from hers she bared her teeth and bit, he twisted away. But his neck was exposed, any flesh would do and she fastened her teeth into it. With a roar he threw her off. But she would not let go and with every chance she had to encounter his flesh she bit. She kicked, she fought with all her might, hoping to force him to let go of her. But he curled up to protect himself. She wasn’t going to give up and desperately she fought on, but the more she fought the stronger he seemed to be. He uncurled; he caught her hands and, his reach longer than hers, he forced her arms wide and she was helpless.

  She had been overpowered. Curtis dragged her to her feet, pushed her unceremoniously back into the room, threw her on to the bed and pinned her down. He loomed over her, his face dark with anger.

  ‘You bitch,’ he snarled. ‘You miserable, scheming bitch. Look at the state of you, you’re a mess.’

  Ginny spat, ‘You’re no oil painting yourself.’

  A second’s silence before Curtis raised his hand and slapped her, left and right across her face.

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ shouted Curtis.

  ‘You might have locked me in, but you’re not going to bully me and beat me up,’ Ginny shouted back, sounding braver than she felt.

  ‘You’ll do as you’re bloody well told.’

  ‘NO, I won’t. When I get out of here, I’ll make sure they lock you away for the rest of your life.’

  ‘You’re not getting out.’

  ‘I am. I am. You can’t keep me.’

  Hovering above her, Curtis’s expression changed. His eyelids flickered and when they stilled his eyes became wide and staring. His voice deepened and in an accent strangely foreign he said, ‘You vill not fight me. I vill not allow it. If you do I vill have to punish you.’

  Why was he talking like that?

  ‘Don’t be silly, Curtis, stop play acting.’

  Curtis roared. Ginny cringed and folded herself up to make herself small.

  ‘Aren’t you punishing me enough?’ she said. ‘I’ve done nothing to make you treat me like this and why are you talking like that?’

  ‘Everyvon in Russia talk zis vay.’

  ‘Russia! You’re not Russian; you’re as English as I am.’

  He roared again. ‘You vill not argue with me, I vill not have it.’

  He was not done with her. He leaned over her. He drew in his breath, his chest expanded and he seemed to get bigger.

  ‘I am master here,’ he said. ‘You vill do as I say.’

  Ginny stared at him. Scared but still defiant she said, ‘No, I will not take orders from you.’

  Again his speed bewildered her and the blow to her head left her ears ringing.

  ‘Stop it,’ she cried. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘You tried to get avay; you haf not to do that.’ The voice was aggressive. ‘You vill not defy me; if you do, the longer you vill stay here. I vill make sure of that.’

  Curtis – was it Curtis? – smiled, but it was not the radiant smile, it was sly. Though he was wearing Curtis’s clothes the man in front of her was not Curtis, not the man she knew. Gone was the one who treated her with respect. Here was one whose attitude and body language warned her that he was dangerous.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ said Ginny. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Who am I? My name is Mikhail. I am from Russia. Now hear this, you vill not mess vith me.’

  No, thought Ginny, I’m not putting up with this. He’s Curtis and he’s mental, he’s play acting, trying to frighten me, well, watch out for this one, Curtis. He was close to her but was not prepared for the speed with which she doubled up her legs, not so close that he could avoid the kick to his stomach. She winded him; kicked again and sent him reeling. Seizing her chance she leapt off the bed, grabbed for the door and freedom. But he was there, spinning her round. Then he hit her, a blow to the jaw that sent her crashing to the floor and into darkness and nothingness.

  Consciousness returned slowly. Her head hurt. Her jaw ached. She moved it from side to side. It was sore but not broken. She moved her fingers. Felt the stuff of the duvet. She was lying down, lying in a pool of silence. She opened her eyes a fraction, then fully. She stared at the ceiling, then looked about her and saw him sitting on the chair. She swung her feet off the bed and sat up, held her head to quieten the pain. Mikhail was leaning towards her, his louring presence filling her with dread. Now he stood up, looked down at her and, in a voice that allowed no argument, said, ‘You haf no choice. I am saying you vill stay here.’

  There was only one conclusion to draw from that … he was condemning her to imprisonment for as long as he saw fit. Physically and emotionally spent, all Ginny wanted to do was bury her head in her pillow and weep. But she wouldn’t do that while he was there.

  ‘You are a fool,’ shouted Mikhail. He began to pace back and forth and Ginny shivered. ‘A fool to fight, it is a battle you cannot vin. You vill haf to stay here until you can behave.’

  He looked at her. For a moment his eyes were blank. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Vat haf you don to your clothes … they are a mess. And vy is your supper on the floor? Vat haf you done?’ He looked down at his own clothes. ‘And I am a mess too. I go.’

  ‘Good. And don’t come back.’

  Mikhail did not come back that day or the next, but Curtis did. Ginny had lodged the chair under the handle of the door and when he asked her to remove it, she would not and refused to let him in. He pleaded, she refused and when he asked her why, she said she was afraid of whom it might be who came in.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘It can’t possibly be anyone but me.’

  ‘Then who is Mikhail?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone of that name,’ said Curtis. ‘Please let me in, I have something for you.’

  Was he lying? Was he mad? Was she mad too?

  ‘Ginny,’ he was pleading now. ‘I want to look after you. I want to make you happy. Once you’ve got used to being here you’ll see that. I can cook and look after the house and leave you free to write.’

  ‘Pie in the sky, Curtis. I have my own home and I like living there.’

  ‘Oh no, there are so many things that can go wrong. You need someone to look after you. That’s why I brought you here. Please let me in.’

  ‘My cat will be missing me.’

  ‘Not for long,’ said Curtis. ‘Mrs Graham will take it in and look after it. You must settle down, you’re quite safe here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Go away, please go away.’

  ‘Well … all right.’ Curtis gave a gusty sigh. ‘But I’ll bring you something to eat later on.’

  ‘I don’t want anything, Curtis. I can make do until breakfast.’

  ‘Well, if you insist.’

  When Curtis had gone, Ginny made sure the chair was securely wedged under the handle of the door. It was the least she could do to protect herself. Until now she had only been dealing with the Curtis she knew, or thought she did, but this character he’d dreamed up, this angry, dangerous Mikhail … who was he? Was Curtis schizophrenic? Whatever it was, it was nasty and now that she had two jailers it was doubly important that she found a way to escape.

  ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ What a fool she had been. Her curiosity to see inside the house Curtis lived in had got the better of her and she had innocently stepped in. Only now did she realize how much danger she was in. While she had waited for him to find the book he had promised to lend her she had put her bag on the floor, because with her books and shopping in it, it was heavy; goodness only knew where it was now. Her handbag was in it and her mobile phone. If she’d only kept hold of it she could have called for help. But did she really think that Curti
s would have allowed that?

  NINE

  It had been a long journey from Inverness to London but Ginny’s parents, James and Sarah Harvey, were now on the train to Salisbury. Sarah, absorbed in the mad jumble of questions without answers that circled in her brain, stared out of the window at a rain-washed countryside. James, hands loosely clasped in his lap, looked straight ahead. They did not talk; conversation had petered out some time before the train had pulled into King’s Cross. But thirty-two years of marriage had forged a bond between them and words were often superfluous. Sarah gave a deep sigh which she let out in a soft moan. James reached out, took her hand and squeezed it. She turned towards him, a sad smile on her face.

  ‘Do you think the police will find her? Do you think Ginny will ever come back to us?’ she said.

  ‘I am sure she will.’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘There are no “what ifs”, Sarah. We cannot go down that path. We have to remain positive. Ginny will be found and she will come home.’

  The train was slowing, click clacking over the points as it ran through the suburbs of the city. The Harveys had been oblivious to all around them, but the movement of their fellow passengers as they gathered belongings together reminded them that they had arrived.

  ‘Come along, Sarah,’ said James. ‘You take the small bag while I bring the suitcase. Did you bring an umbrella?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sarah stepped onto the platform and looked around her. She gasped when she saw the poster on a news stand. In broad black lettering was written HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Underneath it was a picture of Ginny. Her daughter was smiling at her from a billboard. It was the face and the smile she longed to see, but not outside a newspaper shop. Where have you gone, my darling? What has happened to you?