by Tom Bale
Jenny had been too cowed to say a word. He felt for her in the dark and slapped her face.
‘Answer me.’
‘Yes. We have sex.’
‘That’s right. And we’re gonna have it now.’
Today she was better prepared. She waited until she judged it was safe to speak. It was incredible how acutely she could gauge his mood from the sounds he made: his feet shuffling or scraping on the concrete floor, the rustle of his clothes, the huff and snort of his breath, the fidgety movements of his hands.
‘What time is it?’
‘Why? It won’t do you any good.’
‘Please. It doesn’t cost you anything.’
He deliberated for almost a full minute, then tossed his reply at her, like fluff from his pockets. ‘It’s about ten, ten-fifteen.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thank you.’ Emboldened by her success, perhaps deluding herself that her submissive charm could soften his attitude, she pushed on. ‘Am I alone here?’
‘What?’
‘I thought I heard something … last night, I suppose it was. It sounded like a scream. A woman’s scream.’
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘You’re imagining it.’
She sighed. ‘Do you think so?’
The question, so measured and sympathetic, seemed to disarm him; maybe he’d expected a challenge. Laughing softly, he said, ‘Being here, it’s bound to send you mad, if you weren’t already.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Look, you’re on your own, all right? You’ve always been on your own.’
Once he had gone, she wept for a long time. It was a despicable response, weak and self-pitying, but she couldn’t stop herself. His comment about her sanity had wounded her deeply.
It’s bound to send you mad … if you weren’t already.
Finally she passed through it, forced herself to concentrate on her achievements. She had a time now, didn’t she, or at least a vague sense of it. This was the morning. This meal was breakfast.
But on what day? That would be her next aim: to find out the day of the week. And then, the matter that bothered her intensely: how long had she been here?
Several days, definitely. Beyond that, she couldn’t say. Long enough to be missed, surely …?
Jenny was twenty-two, blonde and slender, a bright, attractive young woman. That wasn’t her own assessment: it was what other people had said about her. Until May this year she had been studying Classics and Ancient History at Exeter University, but she’d dropped out, without telling her family, as a result of illness.
Mental illness. Even now, when she considered herself almost fully recovered, she resented the stigma that attached to the notion of a breakdown. She had cracked under the pressure of work, combining her studies with two poorly paid menial jobs. That the pressure had been largely self-inflicted made it worse. She’d always driven herself too hard, had always felt that one day the wheels could come off …
In the first year at uni she’d had several dates. Nothing serious. Then Luke came along and she knew at once that this was different: her first genuinely ‘grown-up’ relationship. That had been a big factor in her decision to remain in Exeter after dropping out. Luke had hung in there, determined to ride out the bad times at her side, convincing her that soon she’d have her life back on course.
He was in the final year of an engineering degree, a solid unspectacular student, confident and likeable, with soft eyes and a hard body. Destined for a good, practical, rewarding career. Destined to be her husband, it had seemed for a while.
They’d both alluded to it, shyly, dropping hints, making jokes. Not right now. God, no. Probably not for years. Too much to do before they could even begin to think of marriage and babies and mortgages. First there was travelling – for Jenny, revisiting some of the places that had so entranced her during her gap year – and some voluntary work, maybe. And partying, and … and just savouring their freedom, their youth.
And then came the bombshell. Her flatmate saw him sticking his tongue down the throat of a girl in a bar called Coolings, on a weekend when he was supposed to be visiting his mother in Kettering. When Jenny confronted him, he confessed to everything, almost gladly. Yes, he had lied to her. Yes, he’d been with a girl. Yes, they were having sex.
And it was fabulous sex.
He’d left the flat with a spring in his step, a burden lifted, and it had struck her then, with terrible force: she was the burden. He was free, but she would always be the burden.
After that, a relapse of sorts, and a flight to solitude. Jenny walked out of her jobs and moved, for reasons she could no longer fathom, to a cramped and dingy bedsit in Whipton. Her finances weren’t great, but they weren’t dire either. If she was careful, she had enough to last six months or so, while she got herself together and either made plans for the future or found the courage to do herself in.
Prior to this, prior to her abduction, she’d had virtually no contact with anyone for weeks. She had no flatmates here, and her neighbours were mostly older, anonymous and blunt in their lack of interest in her. She’d broken off contact with her friends, ignored their calls and texts. Didn’t update her Facebook page. Pacified her parents with an occasional email or text, pleading an overload of reading and socialising.
Sometimes she went out to drink, but always alone, always to distant pubs and cafes where nobody knew her.
And now she wondered: was it possible, when he met her, that he’d known what a mess she was in?
Had that been a factor in his decision to abduct her?
Oh no. No. She sat and shook her head, clutching the unlit torch on her lap, barely able to contemplate a truth this terrible. That she might have been targeted. Singled out because she was weak and lonely and vulnerable.
What reason was there to stay alive if she knew she could be kept here, abused again and again, for weeks or months … and no one would miss her?
He’d said: It’s bound to send you mad … if you weren’t already.
He’d also said: You’ve always been on your own.
And he was right.
Thirty-Three
JOE WAS AT the library by five to two, having spent a couple of hours wandering around the town. He debated whether to go inside but decided it might seem too eager.
At three minutes past the hour Ellie came out, wearing a beautifully tailored but rather garish purple coat. She registered his presence and nodded to herself. ‘You didn’t find Alise, then?’
‘How’d you work that out?’
‘My guess was, if you found her you wouldn’t turn up here.’
‘I’m not like that,’ he said. ‘But I am getting worried.’
‘She’s fine. Probably taken a leaf out of her sister’s book.’
‘In what way?’
‘They’re young women. Free spirits. At that age you don’t think twice about flitting off somewhere.’
Joe shrugged. Turned towards the High Street, but Ellie plucked at his sleeve. ‘Car park’s this way.’
‘Aren’t we going to walk?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘Only a bit of drizzle.’
‘You walk if you like. I’ll see you there.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘You already look like a drowned rat.’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, half-drowned. You can come with me, but don’t make the seat all soggy.’
Her car was a Renault Megane hatchback, four years old, parked in a staff car park that was shared with the town council offices: a monstrous cube of 1960s concrete.
Ellie was a confident driver, fast and a touch impatient, despite appearing to give the road only a fraction of her attention: the bulk of it was focused on Joe as he recounted his conversation with Alise.
‘So basically you believe what she’s been saying?’ Ellie asked.
‘Yes, though not necessarily that Leon Race was involved.’
‘Did you tell her that?’
‘I pointed out the lack of evidence.’
‘You see, my worry is that she’s fixated on Leon – to the extent that she won’t consider any other alternatives. Maybe you’ll be able to talk some sense into her.’
‘Is that what she needs?’
‘Didn’t you get the impression she’s a little … flaky? Doesn’t do herself any favours.’ A beat of silence, then: ‘Have you arranged to meet her again?’
‘Not as such. I assumed I could find her fairly easily.’ Joe told her about the unanswered calls, but not about his visit to the flat in Lonsdale Avenue.
‘Perhaps you’ve called her bluff. She’s been getting a kick out of going around appealing for help. The moment she actually enlists some support she runs a mile.’
‘If so, that makes me a very poor judge of character.’
‘Oh dear. I’ve wounded your ego.’
‘I’ll live,’ Joe said drily. ‘What I can’t fathom is why you seem so hostile towards Alise.’ And practically everyone else, he could have added.
‘Not hostile. Sceptical.’ Ellie braked hard at a junction, flicking the indicator on, and turned to look at him. ‘I think Alise began with a genuine concern, but grew to enjoy being centre of attention. And I don’t doubt her sister has vanished, but like I say there could be any number of reasons for that.’
‘Free spirits?’
‘Exactly.’
He nodded. ‘Is this you speaking from experience? Were you a free spirit once?’
Looking uncharacteristically solemn, Ellie avoided the question. ‘My guess is that you, like most men, are a bit too gullible where helpless young damsels are concerned. I’d hate to see you being taken for a ride.’
‘I’m being taken for one right now.’
She gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘That is a truly terrible pun, if you’re being literal. And if you’re implying that I’m trying to deceive you, I’m going to hit you even harder in a minute.’
There were several cars parked outside the cavern, with a gap that was just wide enough for the Renault. Shunning a larger space further on, Ellie drew alongside, glanced over her shoulder and expertly parallel-parked in one fluid movement.
She edged forward to straighten up, applied the handbrake, shut her eyes and tensed her shoulders. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t compliment my skilful driving. And definitely don’t say anything with an edge of surprise in your voice. You wouldn’t congratulate a man on his parking.’
‘I’d probably take the piss,’ Joe said. ‘That’s what men do.’
They got out and faced each other across the car. Ellie gave him a narrow-eyed stare and bunched her fists: still in combative mode. Joe didn’t bother to conceal his exasperation.
‘I don’t think you’re trying to deceive me. But you’re not being very sympathetic to Alise’s plight, and I don’t agree that this is attention-seeking on her part.’
‘So why hasn’t she returned your calls?’
‘I’ll ask her, the next time I see her.’
The visitor centre was staffed by the same ageing hippie as the day before. He was serving an elderly woman who’d bought an industrial quantity of fudge. Other than her, and a middle-aged couple sceptically examining a dreamcatcher, the place was deserted.
‘Doesn’t do a lot of business,’ Joe murmured.
‘Seasonal,’ Ellie said. ‘It can get positively congested in summer.’
Joe dug in his pocket, but Ellie nudged him. ‘My treat. You can pay next time.’
‘Next time where?’
A shrug. ‘If you’re paying, you can choose.’
With Giles finally out of his hair, Leon rewarded himself with a run. For a big, bulky man, he prided himself on his fitness. He’d always been light on his feet, nimble and quick. As a youth he’d escaped arrest on numerous occasions by literally wriggling or dodging his way to freedom. If not for those skills he’d have a criminal record for sure, so in a sense he owed his business empire to that agility.
There was a gym of sorts in the house, with a treadmill, a cross-trainer and some weights, but every time he went in there he could guarantee an interruption within minutes, if not seconds.
So instead Leon ran the streets. He preferred being outdoors, in the fresh air: an ever-changing view. Thought of it as patrolling his precious little corner of the world.
He wore an iPod but didn’t take his phone. Half the town barely had a signal, and in a grade-one emergency he could be located easily enough. This way it gave him a blessed hour or so of complete freedom.
Today, when he got back, Venning intercepted him as he made for the stairs.
‘Better be good news, otherwise I’m having a shower first.’
‘I dunno. Some bloke called for you. About that picture of Joe whats-his-name.’
‘Oh, yeah. And what is his name?’
Venning looked blank, didn’t get it. ‘You mean Joe?’
‘Never mind. Who was it that called?’
‘He didn’t say.’ Now thoroughly confused, as well as worried. ‘He wouldn’t leave a number, neither. Said he’d ring back.’
Leon sighed, letting the air run out so slowly that he was calm by the time his lungs emptied; that way he wouldn’t feel the need to beat the crap out of Venning.
‘Sorry, Leon. I mean, I did ask him, like—’
‘Never mind. When’s he gonna call?’
‘Later today. I told him you’d be here.’
Nodding, Leon stomped upstairs. After Kowalski, his expectations had lowered. Probably another bloody time-waster.
Thirty-Four
IT WAS A steep descent. The steps were narrow and uneven, the stone worn smooth and slippery. There was a handrail bolted into the rock face, with warnings to ignore it at your peril. Beyond the steps a narrow passageway led them deeper still, until they were perhaps thirty feet underground.
The air was drier than Joe had expected, cool and a little musty. The wall-mounted lamps threw out pools of eerie yellow light. There was no sound other than the echoing thud of their footsteps on the stone path.
‘Is it all like this?’ he asked, aware of a cold sweat prickling on the back of his neck.
Ellie said nothing. A second later the passage ended with a wide arched doorway. The chamber beyond it seemed to emit a silvery glow. Joe felt her hand gently brushing his arm as she ushered him through.
‘This is what it’s like,’ she said.
The would-be informer rang again at twenty past two. Fenton had suggested taping the call: a doddle for Venning to set up.
It was Fenton who answered. Leon was in the living room, playing Halo: Reach on the Xbox. At a shout from Venning he threw the controller down and hurried into the office. Fenton kept the phone at his ear while Leon picked up the other handset and slumped on the sofa.
‘This is Leon Race. Who are you?’
‘I’m the man who can do you a very big favour.’ The accent was vaguely London. An uneducated voice, and not young.
‘I asked who you were.’
‘Call me Billy.’
‘What’s your real name?’
The man chuckled: it sounded husky, clogged up. A smoker.
‘All in good time, Mr Race. I seen that piccie of yours, doing the rounds.’
‘So what can you tell me?’
‘I’m not gonna come right out and say it, am I? Gotta be worth a few quid to you. In fact, I know it is.’ He laughed again: not a chuckle, but a cackle. A man in his late fifties or sixties, Leon thought. A hard-lived life.
‘I’m willing to pay for the information,’ Leon said. ‘How much exactly depends on what you have. A lot of bullshitters out there, and right now I think you’re one of them.’
‘Oh no, Mr Race. What I have is solid fuckin’ gold.’
The phrase came out thin and wheezy. Leon pictured somebody scrawny, unhealthy, with a sly look in his eyes. But the enthusiasm wasn’t faked: the man truly be
lieved he had something valuable.
‘Give me a flavour, then we’ll talk terms.’
‘First, you tell me this. The geezer in the photo – you’ve got him, have you? In your custody, so to speak?’
Leon started to reply, saw Fenton frantically shaking his head. He covered the phone and mouthed: ‘What?’
Pressing his own handset into the folds of his belly, Fenton hissed: ‘If you tell him where Joe is, he could cut us out of the deal.’
Good point. Leon felt a rush of intense hatred for the man on the other end of the line.
‘You’re pissing me about,’ he growled. He put the phone down and gestured at Fenton to disconnect as well.
‘Was that wise?’
Leon shrugged, but his left leg was juddering with excitement. They were on to something.
‘He’ll call back.’
‘What if he doesn’t?’
‘He will.’ Leon rubbed his hands together. ‘Accentuate the positive, remember?’
The cavern was an extraordinary sight: almost disturbing in its sense of otherness. It reminded Joe of how he’d felt, years ago, when he’d discovered a wasps’ nest in his attic, perfectly and painstakingly constructed from scraps of newspaper. The awe he’d experienced at witnessing an essentially alien intelligence at work was replicated here.
The main cavern was rectangular, about twenty feet by ten, with three other arched doorways leading to what appeared to be smaller chambers. The roof of the cavern was dome-shaped, narrowing towards a central funnel which fed a soft ethereal light into the room.
The domed roof and the floor were fashioned from bare rock, but the walls, every square inch of them, were adorned with shells. Millions of shells in a variety of sizes, shapes and colours, placed with the utmost care and precision, to astonishing effect.
They were arranged in large rectangular panels. As Joe’s eyes became accustomed to the sight, he started to discern shapes and symbols within the panels. Various animals were depicted, in styles reminiscent of Egyptian, Greek and Phoenician art; there were phallic symbols and trees of life and ancient gods and goddesses. But the location and the form continued to speak of an otherworldly culture.
‘Who created this?’
