The Winding Stair

by Millie Vigor

  It was the bedroom that unnerved me. There was a king-sized bed, a fully equipped dressing table, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. There was an en-suite shower too, with shelves stacked high with fluffy towels.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said.

  And he said, ‘I’m glad you like it, because this is your room.’

  ‘Mine!’ I said. ‘But it’s got a king size bed.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  And then he said, ‘It’s the bed we’ll sleep in when we are married.’

  Can you imagine how I felt? I had no intention of ever sleeping in that bed, let alone with him. How could he be talking about getting married? I said we’d talk about it later and asked him to show me the rest of the rooms. So he showed me his bedroom which was just across the landing. And then we went downstairs.

  When he started talking about getting married again, I blew my top and shouted at him that no way was I going to marry him and that it was about time he let me go home. And then Mikhail surfaced. He’s the nasty bit of Curtis. ‘I will kill you first,’ he screamed at me and then I was on the floor with his hands around my throat. I struggled, fought back but he was too strong for me and the next thing I knew was when Angel was bending over me, telling me to wake up.

  And here I am, still alive, but for how long?

  Alive, but for how long? Good question. Ginny moved the laptop off of her legs and stood up. Gosh, how hungry she was, what wouldn’t she give to be able to make a sandwich or even have a couple of biscuits. She looked at her wristwatch, it was gone three o’clock, no wonder she was starving. She took a drink of water then began to walk, forward and back the length of the room. How many times had she trekked back and forth across this room? She gave a rueful smile when she wondered how it was that she hadn’t yet worn a groove in the floor.

  When she felt that she’d walked long enough, she stood and looked out of the little window. Nothing much had changed in the garden. The green bud had stopped showing any signs of growth; it must be waiting for warmer weather. Wrong, thought Ginny, spring doesn’t really start until after Christmas, it’ll be a long wait. She looked out at the grass and along to the shrubbery at the far end. Movement in one of the bushes caught her eye. Were birds seeking shelter there or a cat out hunting? No, it was something bigger. Trainers and trouser clad legs appeared first, then a hoodie jacket, and inside it all, a boy, though it could have been a girl. The figure sprinted across the lawn.

  ‘This way, this way,’ cried Ginny, knowing even as she called that she wouldn’t be heard. Reaching up, she hammered on the glass. ‘Oh, please come this way, help me, help me.’

  But the person veered off to the left. Where had he gone? Was he a burglar only interested in breaking in to steal?

  Then she saw feet and trouser bottoms and, incongruously, she noticed that the shoes were dirty. A face appeared next as the body stooped, then hands that held a small black box.

  ‘Help me. Get me out of here,’ she screamed.

  But the boy – it was a boy – just pointed the box, a camera, at her and with a series of flashes took photographs.

  ‘Come back, come back,’ yelled Ginny as the boy turned and ran away. She watched in despair as he disappeared among the bushes at the end of the garden and was gone. What had he been doing there and why? Was he just a thief and was he just – what was it called? – casing the joint? Is that why he had a camera? Was he taking pictures to aid his memory? She should have written on a piece of paper and held it up to the window to tell him she was a prisoner, but it was too late to think of that now. Her chance had gone.

  She began to walk again. Eight steps, turn and eight steps back. Turn again and repeat the process. Back and forth she went, back and forth and all the time she berated herself for missing the chance to get a message to someone out there. The chance wouldn’t happen again, she was sure. If ever she was going to get out of this hole, she would have to do it herself and she had no idea how.

  Daylight was fading. She put on the light and went back to the laptop. I might just as well keep everything up to date, she thought. And she wrote about the boy, his camera and his dirty shoes. How could I have noticed that when I ought to have been more interested in getting his attention? Of course, he might tell someone that he saw me here and that I was yelling for help. Then again, he might just think that I was shouting at him to get out of the garden because he was trespassing. How was he to know anything different? No hope there then.

  The day drifted on. From time to time, Ginny’s stomach reminded her that it had received nothing for a great many hours. She tightened her belt, wasn’t that what people did to abate the pangs of hunger? But it wouldn’t be long now before Curtis was home and then the wait would be over. She didn’t care what he might dish up for their supper this time, anything would do.

  She walked again to pass the time. Hands stuffed into her trouser pockets, back and forth she went.

  What am I going to do if Mikhail comes out again? He’s too strong; I just can’t cope with him. I suppose I’d better humour Curtis and tell him that I’m thinking it might be a good idea to get married, tell him that there are plans to be made and it will all take a lot of time. No, that won’t do.

  Ginny took her hand out of her pocket, turned her wrist so that she could read the time on her watch. Nearly seven o’clock. Supper was late. She picked up the water bottle. It was nearly empty. She drank what was in it. She’d ask Curtis to give her another. She moved the bed away from the door. She had to let in whoever might bring her supper so there was no point in keeping the door barred. She sat on the bed and waited.

  Eight o’clock came and went, and once more Ginny paced the floor.

  Where was Curtis? Working late? If so, he wouldn’t be home for another hour at least. He should have refused. He had told her that he wouldn’t be dragooned into working late again without prior notice, that if Hazel tried to make him he would walk out. So perhaps he wasn’t. What was he doing then?

  Had the worst happened? Was he even still alive? No, don’t think like that, Virginia. All sorts of things could have happened to delay him. Be positive. Negativity means defeat and you will not be defeated.

  Nine o’clock came and went, then ten, and still no sign of Curtis. The library would be shut. The staff would have gone home. Ginny sat on the bed. A desire to be sick made her place both hands on her stomach. Her stomach was empty, there was nothing to vomit. The sickness was fear, fear that Mikhail was still out there. But was it Mikhail or Curtis who wanted her dead? Whoever it was, did he still want to kill her? And because Angel stopped him from strangling her, was he going to kill her now by starving her to death? How long could she live without food or water, a week, more, or less? It was now twenty-four hours since she had last eaten.

  Elbows on her knees, Ginny buried her head in her hands. Darkness surrounded her. She was falling into a pit from which there was no escape. She was going to die in this squalid cellar. Silent tears ran down her face. She did nothing to stop them.

  Her body ached and there was a pain in her heart. If only she could see her mother again, walk in the hills with her father. If only she could run to Nancy, tell her friend that she was sorry she had accused her of making her life a misery. If only she could see Brett McIvor once more. If only … if only…

  She lay on her side on the bed, pulled up her knees, clasped her arms round her chest and curled herself up. Tears of anguish, of fear, of frustration came and went until sleep eventually claimed her. Then she drifted restlessly in that other world, that little death into which we all wander at night. She slept fitfully, woke and slept again. Towards morning, she opened her eyes and stared around her. The light bulb – minus the shade – that hung from the ceiling was on. She wondered why, then remembered the events that had led up to this moment. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed.

  It had not been a long sleep, but it had refreshed her. She looked at her watch. How glad she was that she still had it on her wrist.
It was eight o’clock. Was Curtis in the house? Would he come down the stairs to taunt her, or would he bring her some breakfast? If and when he came she would be ready for him. She pulled the bed away from the door. All she had to do now was to wait.

  The house was silent. And the silence bothered her. Time was ticking away. There should have been sounds of movement in the rooms above her, sounds that told her Curtis was at home. Her empty stomach convulsed and again Ginny felt sick. It was not fear that made her sick now, but anger, anger that Curtis had led her along a path that she did not want to tread, tempted her with presents and promises, but only if she agreed to remain his prisoner. And she could not agree to that.

  Somewhere a door banged, and there were sounds of someone moving about. A few minutes later, there was the shuffle of feet on the stairs. Someone was coming. Thank God, at least her captor was still alive. She heard the familiar sounds of bolts being drawn. The door began to open.

  She had to be ready for whoever came through.

  And she was.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Curtis, carrying a tray on which was Ginny’s breakfast, stepped into the cellar and smiled. Ginny swung her laptop above her head and brought it down on him with all the force that she could muster. It connected with his shoulder.

  ‘That’s for locking me up,’ she yelled as she swung her weapon again. ‘And this is for leaving me here to rot.’

  The blow to his head lifted Curtis off his feet and sent him crashing to the floor. Ginny laughed demonically as she heard the rush of his breath being expelled. Her weapon at the ready in case he should rise up, she looked down at him; she was ready to strike again, would strike again and again until he could rise no more.

  But Curtis lay still and did not move. Shards of broken crockery and a shower of cornflakes surrounded him. A river of milk crept across the floor. The tray, where was the tray? It didn’t matter. Cautiously Ginny took a step toward him. His eyes were closed. She pushed at his leg with the toe of her shoe. A little groan escaped him then there was nothing. She pressed her foot into his leg again. It was heavy and there was no reaction. Had she killed him? She hesitated, wanted to check that he was still alive, but was afraid that he might be playing tricks. It was time to go; there was nothing she could do.

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve,’ she shouted and throwing the laptop at him, she ran out of the cellar, pulled the door shut, shot the bolts and raced up the stairs. She was out, but not yet free.

  A light was on in the hall and there on the coat stand was Curtis’s overcoat. Please, oh, please, let the key be in his pocket. She put in her hand and pulled out a bunch of keys on a ring. With trembling hands she searched for the one that fitted the lock. At last, there it was. Holding her breath, hoping there was no alarm system that would stop her, she turned the key and taking hold of the handle, pulled the door towards her. It opened and a rush of cold air swept in.

  It was not yet daylight, but a grey dawn lightened the sky. Ginny ran down the steps, almost falling in her eagerness to be away. Out of the gate she ran, along the road and into Church Lane. Cooped up for so long her legs were weak, the muscles flabby despite her attempts to exercise them, but weak or not, nothing and no one was going to stop her; she was going home.

  An overnight frost had left puddles glazed with a silvery sheen of ice. Roadside verges were stiff with rime. Ginny ran, had no intention of stopping till she reached her cottage. The air she breathed was so cold it burned her lungs. Every breath made her gasp. The lane seemed so much longer than she remembered it, but she wasn’t going to slow down even though a stitch in her side stabbed her and made her want to stop.

  Then there it was, her cottage, her home, and there was her car in front of it. She ran up the path to the door then came to a sudden stop. She couldn’t get in. Her key was in her bag and that was somewhere in Curtis’s house.

  ‘Nancy,’ she cried as she ran next door to her friend. ‘Nancy.’

  She reached for the handle of her neighbour’s door, expecting it to open, but the door was locked. Suddenly the euphoria of escaping from her jailer was gone, the storm broke and Virginia, in a flood of tears, pummelled on the door with her fists.

  ‘Nancy,’ she cried.

  A key turned, the door opened and Ginny, hammering on it, fell at Nancy’s feet.

  ‘Nancy, oh, Nancy,’ she wept as she wrapped her arms round Nancy’s legs and clung to her. ‘I’ve killed him. I’ve killed him.’

  ‘Oh my God, Ginny, get up, get up.’ The woman bent over her, pulled her up and enfolded her in her arms. Ginny was shivering. ‘My dear girl, you’re freezing. Come, let’s get you warm.’ Closing the door, Nancy Graham grabbed a jacket from where it hung and wrapped it round the girl. Holding her close, she led her towards the warmth of her kitchen.

  ‘Darlin’, where have you been? What’s happened to you? Where have you come from and who is it you think you’ve killed?’

  Nancy was trying to make Ginny sit down, but Ginny only clung tighter to her friend.

  ‘Don’t ask me, hold me, don’t let me go,’ cried Ginny. ‘Tell me I’m really home; tell me I won’t have to go back there.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere. You’re home and … oh, I’m so glad you are.’ Then Nancy too was weeping. But tears do not go on forever and Nancy, with a wry grin on her face said, ‘What a pair of fools we are. Sit down, Ginny, and talk to me.’ She took Ginny’s hands in hers. ‘Now tell me who it is you’ve killed.’

  ‘Curtis … I’ve killed Curtis,’ cried Ginny. ‘I hit him with the laptop. He fell down and didn’t move and I couldn’t make him.’

  ‘Where were you then, that you could have done that to him?’ said Nancy.

  ‘In his cellar.’

  ‘His cellar!’

  ‘He kept me in his cellar. I’ve been there all the time. But Nancy, what will happen to me if I have killed him? Will I have to go to prison? I couldn’t stand that. Curtis’s cellar was a prison. I don’t want to go back there again.’

  ‘I doubt very much if you’ve killed him. We’ll have to wait to find out so we won’t worry about that now.’

  The cat flap in Nancy’s back door clattered and Ginny’s cat strolled nonchalantly into the kitchen. It took one look at Ginny and leapt straight into her arms. Nancy smiled as she watched them. Fussing over her cat would be just what Ginny needed.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had any breakfast,’ said Nancy. ‘I’ll make some porridge.’

  And I ought to phone the police, she thought, but not just yet, let the girl settle down a bit before they get at her with their questions. There’s time enough for that.

  ‘Billy, I’m going out now,’ Sally’s mother shouted up the stairs to her son. ‘If you ever get yourself out of that bed, you’ll have to get your own breakfast. Don’t get up to any mischief while I’m gone.’

  ‘OK,’ Billy replied.

  He was already out of bed and working on his computer. He had needed to do a lot of work on the photographs he had taken, the flash tended to reflect off window glass which distorted the print out. But you could do wonders with Photoshop and now the face of the woman in the cellar was clear. It was a good job she hadn’t been able to get at him, she had been mouthing off something awful and would have probably given him a backhander if she could have, but then he had been trespassing. Anyway, he supposed he’d better go down to the pub and give Sally the photos, but what on earth she wanted them for or what she was going to do with them, God only knew. Billy put on his coat, pulled the hood over his head, added the envelope containing the photos to his pocket and set off.

  When he walked into the Wheatsheaf there was no sign of Sally, only a man sitting at one of the tables in the bar, a dark-haired man who was reading a paper. Billy watched him as he folded up the paper, laid it on the table then got up and walked away. Where was Sally?

  He had to find her, but he wasn’t supposed to be in the bar and he couldn’t go through to the kitchen or wherever it w
as she worked. What was he to do? There must be some way to get attention. And there was. It came in the shape of a bell on the bar, one of those you had to pump with the flat of your hand. Billy thumped it and was soon rewarded with the sound of footsteps coming his way.

  ‘What are you doing here, Bill? OH!’ Sally gasped. ‘Have you got those photos?’

  ‘Yup, had to do a bit of work on ’em. Gonna cost.’

  ‘Right, wait there.’ Sally turned and ran.

  ‘Well, don’t you want to look at them?’ Billy shouted at her receding back.

  Huh, women. They tell you it’s important then when you get the goods, they can’t even be bothered to look. And to think I got out of bed to print them off. I could have stayed there for another hour. Billy looked at the big clock above the bar. It’s only ten o’clock. I shall have to up the price; it’ll be fifteen quid now, not ten.

  Voices and hurrying footsteps told him that Sally was coming back and that someone was with her. She was followed by the tall man he had seen earlier.

  ‘Where are they then?’ asked Sally as she advanced purposefully towards Billy. ‘Show them to Mr McIvor, he’s the one who wants them.’

  Billy pulled the packet of photographs out of his pocket and handed them to the man. He watched as they were taken out of the envelope and how the smile on the man’s face grew wider as he looked at each one.

  ‘It is Ginny,’ he cried. ‘I knew I was right. I’ve got to go to the police. We’ve got to get her out.’ Grabbing Sally by the shoulders, he planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Then he was gone, out of the pub and running across the yard to where his car was parked.

  ‘What’s all that about?’ said Billy. ‘He’s run off and hasn’t paid me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he will,’ said Sally. ‘Now push off, you can’t stay here.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Billy.