by Caro Ramsay
I look along the ground. It is uneven, as if it has been hit by minor earthquakes here and there, clods of earth sticking up like the crust of an over-cooked cake. Roots of trees trying to hold on before they were cut down. The walls of the old hut that are still standing block the view. The feral smell is stronger now, fox urine and rotten meat. I flex my fingers, stretch out my legs a little. I need to be ready. I walk up to the wooden sections of the old hut; the mosaic of pine needles show some recent disturbance. I grip the upright of the wooden partition, pull it forward slightly, and look behind it. There is a break in the surface here, creating a mini-cliff about two feet high. The smell fills the air. I can make out an old metal grille on the gap, to keep something out or to keep something in? I lean forward as far as I can, staring into the dark. I see a couple of amber eyes stare back out at me.
They are not human.
I don’t even know if I say it out loud.
Hello, Night Hunter.
The sensible thing to do now is turn round and walk away. I should go back to Billy. I should phone Costello. But I know Sophie is here.
To fetch one if one goes astray.
I make my way back across open ground to the cover of the conifers and I raise a thumb at Billy, telling him I have found something. I am on a mission and I do not want a fat old git and his respiratory issues getting in my way.
I have found what the women were running from. Two dogs, ten stone each. Powerful. Cuddly and furry. Deadly.
To strengthen whilst one stands.
As I jog I think of them running after me, grabbing my calf, pulling me down … then what? Does Eric stand and watch, ready to call them off? Does he ‘rescue’ the frightened women, take them to the Land Rover, offering them a run home …
My neighbour, teddy-bear Eric.
I find a window at the back of the croft. Something that looks like old rolls of carpet is piled up against glass patterned with mould and cobwebs. No one has disturbed this for years, but at the top a narrow hopper is rusted, and open. I put a finger behind it and it lifts with a loud rasp, so easily it must have been broken from its hinge.
I feel in my pocket and check my mobile. I have charge, and a weak signal. I have Billy outside and adrenaline in my veins. I climb up on to the stone window ledge and gauge the best way to get in. I put my head through, then my shoulders, and brace my hands on the cross frame. Holding tight and punching with my legs, I kick against the ledge and let the weight of my upper half cantilever me over. I slide head first down the other side, open arms above my head steering my face away from the mouldy damp carpets, and let my legs follow until I am sitting on a filthy worktop watching the silverfish scurry. Then my feet are on the flagstone floor, behind some old two by four planks of wood. The place is freezing and deathly quiet.
I pull up the sleeves of my fleece. I think I am alone but you can never be too careful. There is a noise that might be the wind, so faint I can hardly hear it. But it is more than noise, I can feel it through my feet.
I leave the kitchen and walk into the old hall. At the front is the sitting room, the room with the water clock in it. I cross under the scaffolding that holds the ceiling up to the bottom of the stairs. The noise is getting louder. I backtrack a little and open a door next to the front door, opposite the room with the water clocks. This is a more modern kitchen, modern as in 1970s and not 1870s. There is a series of mugs, upside down as if they have just been washed. And in the corner is a boiler, working. I can see the blue light of the gas burner. I look round, feel the old radiator. It is stone cold. The boiler looks brand new. I wonder where the heat is going. Is he keeping someone alive in here? That was something that the Prof guy had said about Lorna: she had been kept out of the sun. Underground? I have found the dogs. Have I now found the place where he keeps the women, alive? Sophie? Well, Lizzie went to save Laura.
Then Lizzie weigh’d no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Well, it worked out for them; they grew old, they lived to tell their daughters the tale.
I check the hall at the bottom of the stairs. The pipes go down there. Back to the kitchen? No, it’s way too cold in there. Underfloor heating in a flagstone floor that’s over a hundred years old? I don’t think so.
I feel bile rise in my throat. A basement.
I feel movement under my feet again.
No sunlight. Underground. I go back out to the hall and look under the scaffolding to the rear of the house. There is a small door, and beyond it a small staircase heading downward. I try to keep my breathing steady as I go down, my hand trailing on the stone wall, but it only leads to a small room, like a basement cupboard. It is stacked with shelves on either side. This doesn’t feel right; it is not logical to shelve walls on left and right while the wall opposite the door is free, with just a few pieces of MDF leaning against it. I am twitching; I know that there is something here for me. When I lean my cheek against the gritty plaster of the wall, I sense something different; not warm exactly. Just less cold. What about the MDF? It’s more recent than the mouldy stuff upstairs. Eric has been doing work down here. I feel the wall carefully. There’s a definite gap at the top and down the sides, but if it’s a door there are no hinges. No marks of it scraping on the floor as it opens. I try to push it – nothing. I stand back and think. Eric is clever – he is an architect, an engineer. He likes puzzles, things of beauty and symmetry. There’s not a lot of room, so does it slide? I place my palms against it, getting a slight purchase on the rough plaster. I try to push it to the right, it does not budge. And then to the left. Nothing. Knees bent, I try to lift it.
It gives, there is a deep rumble from the other side. The door settles back down. The rumble ceases. I had nearly set something in motion. I think of the little gate on his water clock, a single flat piece of glass that can rise and fall counterweighted by the water at the other side. Is this the practical version? A water door?
I sit on the floor and stick my fingers into the space at the bottom. It should be full of dust and bugs but it is clean. Clean means it’s been used, frequently and recently. I curl my fingertips under the concrete slab. Again a slight lift and then it settles back. I think of the water clock with the little portcullis and the counterweight tub of water. It needed the weight of the water to pull up the portcullis. It has been raining steadily all day. It had been raining hard before Lorna fell out of the sky. My heart almost stops when I realize that Gilly and Sophie had waited until the rain went off before they went out. Now I know a connection.
I put my fingers under the door again, it feels slightly lighter. But I still can’t lift it. Nor can I walk away. Sophie could be in there. I am not going to leave her there. Or anyone else.
I go back up the stairs and into the hall. I pull out my mobile phone and press Call.
Billy answers immediately. ‘Hi, how are you doing?’
‘Think I might have found something.’
‘Found what?’
‘Everything, the dogs, a basement. Billy, I think …’ My voice cracks.
‘Get out of there.’ His voice is strong.
‘I need to …’
‘You need to get out of there, sweet cheeks.’
‘Sophie.’ My voice is a sob.
‘Look, hen, get out. We’ll get Anderson.’
‘I need proof.’
There was silence on the other end.
‘I don’t want the proof of your dead body. You can’t stop one of those dogs, can you?’
‘No. But I know where the dogs are. I need you to do me a favour. Walk to the front garden, watch the tub fill with water, then when it tips into the ornamental pond. Tell me if the earth trembles when it stops, as if something underground is moving.’
&nb
sp; ‘OK, not the kind of thing that usually turns me on, hen, but I’ll give it a go.’
I hear him open his car door. I can hear the rain. As he shuts his phone I hear him mutter, fucking pissing down.
I go back down the stairs, watching the signal on the phone fade. And I stand again at the lower door. I kneel, I try to lift it again. It definitely shunts up a little higher before it falls back down again. I’m sure I am right.
I go back up to the top of the stairs and look at the phone signal – one bar. It’s not much but it’s enough. The phone goes, I answer it immediately. There’s nobody at the other end, just a noise as if the phone’s in someone’s trouser pocket.
Instinct tells me to say nothing.
Then I hear a muffled hello. It’s not Billy.
I push the phone hard into my ear, looking round me, looking for a way out. I can’t ignore the feeling of unease that is rising in me. I hear Billy’s voice say, ‘Hello, Eric, how are you doing?’
‘Can I help you with something?’ The clang of a heavy door, the Land Rover.
‘Elvie? I was thinking you might know where she is.’
‘Why would I?’
I recognize Eric’s voice, but it doesn’t sound like him. It is harder somehow.
‘Just wondered. Parnell said she was up at Ardno but she seems to have gone walkabout – or runabout in her case. I thought she might come to you, you being an old pal. Have you seen her?’
‘I don’t know what she would be doing here.’
‘I don’t think she’s been thinking all that clearly with all that’s going on. You know her family. I’m worried about her.’ I hear the rhythmic rustle of his trousers as he walks. They must be standing out in the yard in the pouring rain. ‘She told me about this clock thing.’ Billy’s voice sounds full of admiration.
Eric starts talking about the water clock, his voice more normal now, louder. He has obviously moved towards Billy. Billy explains why he is concerned about me. I have been out running in the middle of the night, not the actions of a sane woman. Does Eric know of anywhere else I might go?
There’s a pause, as if Eric has shaken his head. ‘I’ll be in most of the night, I’ll let you know if she turns up. But Mary would be your best bet. Elvie might have gone to the hospital to try to speak to her.’
‘Well, if she phones you, tell her to call me. I’ll be fucking furious once I stop being worried.’
‘She’s always been odd,’ says Eric.
‘Well, here’s my number.’ I hear the phone cut off.
And that’s me stuck. I hear Eric at the door. I hear his voice say ‘Hi’, and for a moment I think he’s talking to me. But he keeps talking. ‘So she hasn’t been there?’
Has he phoned Parnell? I creep closer to the bottom of the stairs to listen, keeping my eye on a length of scaffolding pipe. I can get to it before he gets to me.
‘Just that Billy guy said that she was up at your house earlier.’
Silence.
‘So you’ve been in Glasgow all day? I must have misunderstood him.’
I hear him close the phone.
‘But I don’t think I did,’ I hear him say. Then there is a slow, soft footfall, like a teddy bear.
Now I am trapped in the house. And he has a heads-up that I am here. I listen to him moving about, and tuck back in behind the door as far as I can, trying not to breathe.
I track his movements. His car keys going down on a hard surface, soft sounds of a coat or jacket being taken off. He is muttering to himself. Then I hear his footsteps on the floorboards in the hall. Only inches separate us; we are back to back with only a thin wall between.
I hear the drag of metal on wood, then the front door shuts.
I let out a slow breath but stay in my place for a while, making sure that he has gone. Then I nip out back through to the dirty kitchen window where I see him walking across the moor to the trees and the older part of the croft. He is going to let the dogs out. And even I cannot outrun them.
I go to the front of the house. It’s still raining heavily. There’s no sign of Billy or the car. I try him on the mobile; he has switched his off. He will be going for help and I just have to hide until it gets here.
Or I can try to find Sophie.
I go back to the basement stairwell and hide, glad that that filthy carpets camouflage my muddy shoeprints. I bet Eric thinks he’s so clever that nobody would ever find their way in there. I take that as a challenge and think back. Have I left any signs that I have been here? I don’t think so, nothing but a scent. As soon as those dogs run free he will have his answer.
In the basement I slide down against the wall, thinking of a way out. Or a way in. Or I can hide and strike him over the head with that piece of scaffolding as soon as he appears. I look for it but it has gone. He took it with him, of course.
Which means he feels the needs to defend himself. He knows me too well.
I turn my mobile off and sit for a while, thinking. He must be out there somewhere, running the dogs up on the hill. Is that where he thinks I am? I am still thinking this through when I hear the noise again, that deep grinding noise from under my feet, but it is closer now, right behind the wall.
I look around the cupboard and see a rubber torch on the shelf, near the door. If I make a move I have to make it soon. This is not going to be quiet, so I need to do it while he’s out with the dogs. I place my two hands under the plaster slab and lift; it moves easily now. I hear a noise like a cistern running. Then it stops and the plaster slab stops. It moves up about twelve inches before it falls back, but the downward movement is slow. I stick my hand underneath it, feeling its depth. A couple of inches or so. I wait until it is down fully then stick the torch between my teeth. This time I am ready. I put my fingertips underneath it and pull up hard. The door rises and I roll quickly underneath, letting it fall to a close behind me with a surprisingly gentle snick.
I am through.
No matter what is in here, there is now that slab between me and those dogs. I am sitting on another flagstone floor. It is dark, but warmer. This smells like a house with life.
I sit for a minute as my eyes adjust, not wanting to put the torch on until I know how far the light might be seen. And by whom.
Nothing happens. I wait then put the torch under my fleece and switch it on, letting a trail of dull light shine round the room. Arcing the beam around I see another room like a corridor, about eight feet long and three feet wide with a puddle at the far end. I can lean against one wall and easily touch the other. There is no window. I pull the torch out to get the benefit of the full beam. I tap the walls. Three of them look the same, old stone, with newer plaster holding the render together. The fourth wall, the narrowest one, sounds hollow. There is water at the bottom, the full width of the room, where the floor dips. It reminds me of the old footbaths at the public swimming pool, no way through without getting your feet wet. I keep clear of the water and lean forward, putting my ear against the slab. I can hear the noise of water running, above me, under me. But it sounds louder the lower I get. I run the beam of the torch along the floor, a deep dark trough of water. A stream of clear, fresh water is gurgling along a low channel to disappear under the wall. Eric is fond of his little tricks. And his water. The wall in front of me looks solid. I bet it is not. I step forward into the puddle. My foot disappears into the deep blackness and I fall on my backside. Pulling my soaking leg out, I sit and think then I roll up my sleeve and stick my hand under the concrete slab. If I lean my cheek against the flagstone floor and stretch further, I can reach fresh air on the other side. Then I sit back on my haunches.
This is another water door. I try the same trick as I did before – hands underneath and heave. The concrete bites into my fingers and it’s difficult to get purchase at arm’s-length. I try to push it up, it gives and lifts, accompanied by that familiar sound of volumes of water running, and the channel beside me becomes a mini-tsunami. The door gets heavier. As it stops, the water st
ops. I lift it again and it gurgles back to life. But I see light, dancing diamonds reflected on the surface of the water. The slab has stopped moving. It will lift no further. I lie down on the floor and look along the top of the water. I can see stairs on the far side as warm air floats out towards me. Again I get the feeling that there is something alive down here. And I think it might be Sophie. This partition must communicate with the room beyond this one. It is logical that this is the door, so why does it not open high enough to let me step across the water and get through? I stretch out my arm again to make sure that I can feel fresh air on the other side.
All I have to do is get underneath. The gurgling noise comes and goes with a promise, but the water level has dropped a little. The dogs might not be able to find me down here, but when Eric comes back to the house and notices that the torch is missing, he will recall showing me the water clock. And he will put two and two together. I have only bought myself some time. Billy will appear with the cavalry – well, maybe Grandpa Cop, in a mood, no doubt. He’s a friend of Eric’s, I will need proof. Something that cannot easily be explained away.
There is no going back now.
I watch the water level drop. Six inches, seven, ten. It reveals a step. I saw matching stairs on the other side. I take my phone out of my pocket and throw it across the top of the water just under the slab. I hear it fall on to a hard surface without a splash. I check the rubber torch is waterproof. I think if I slide down into the water feet first, my feet will hit the bottom and all I have to do then is dip my head under the partition and I’ll be on the other side, no drowning required. Just full body immersion in bitter cold water for a minute. In the end I stick the torch into the waistband of my trousers and hope it will hold. I slide off the edge of the flagstone. The icy water steals my breath. It bites at my flesh, and my Rohans suck at the skin of my thighs as I let myself drop deeper. There seems to be no bottom, my feet kick against nothing. I stretch my legs down, suspending myself upright like a living specimen in a jar, hanging in formaldehyde. I feel myself go down, down, down. I expect my feet to touch something … but nothing … it’s an abyss. I place my hands against the flagstone on my right and push hard; my body floats across, under the slab. I dip my head down into the water to clear the bottom of the partition. Then I grab the flagstone at the far side and try for a hand hold. My fingertips touch, then slither uselessly. I feel myself tumble down into the water, totally disorientated; my shoulders are above my head. Everywhere is black. I breathe out slowly, watching the air trickle from the corner of my mouth. Now I know which way is up. I reach out, stretching with my arms, my fingers, and touch nothing. I kick with my feet, the torch stabs into me. I kick again and reach blindly above my head. My fingers touch the edge of the flagstone; this time I grip tight, and pull myself up. My body is heavy in the water, my clothes dragging me down. But I haul myself up and clamber out on to the dry flagstones on the far side where I sit for a minute, dripping wet but clean, very clean. Almost clinically. As was Lorna. I know that she was here, doing this. I’m sure of it.
