“Oh, thank God,” I wheezed, refuelling my lungs now I could take a breath. Yanking on the pull cord by the side of the door, the light bulb over my head provided a faint but sufficient light.
It took me over an hour to document every can, packet and box stacked upon the four shelves that filled the tiny pantry, the frantic beat of my heart stabilising after every scribbled line on my itinerary and every mouthful of anything I could stuff into my mouth.
Eventually when the usual hatred and shame pushed away the longing, I snatched up the various empty food packets I’d worked my way through and stuffed them into the kitchen bin as I made my way back through the house.
Not wanting to wake Anderson, if he had returned, I tiptoed along the hall, holding my breath as I stepped onto the bottom stair and prayed it didn’t creak. A noise caught my attention and I froze. For a long moment I struggled to breathe when the sound of a ragged moan sent a wave of fright through me. Surely he couldn’t have found me here at Anderson’s? No one knew I was here, unless we had been followed earlier, but I’d checked and rechecked my mirrors frequently on the drive over.
When the noise came again I stepped back and turned towards the sound. The basement door was ajar and I thought back to whether it had been open when I had come down. I would have noticed if it was, plus the fact that the hallway light was now on made me certain.
Peering up the stairs first to see if Red had heard it, I was disappointed to find I was still alone.
“Damn.”
Another groan, louder and longer was this time accompanied by a loud cry. My skin prickled as I slowly crept towards the door. Closing my eyes, I ran my tongue around my teeth and dug deep for the courage I needed. I was terrified something had happened to Anderson. When a scream and then another whimper of pain filtered up the concrete steps and gave me the determination I needed to face my fears, I blew out a long breath and started downwards.
Halfway down, the steps curved to the right and, strangely, I found a long thin cane leaning against the wall. Knowing it wasn’t much but the best I was going to get, I wrapped my fingers around it and carried on. It was dull, the lighting low and subdued the farther down I descended. My breathing grew ragged the deeper I got, my heart trying to keep up with the rush of adrenaline surging my system.
I should have shouted out, I should have, and when I looked back over the coming days, my mind slipping in and out of sanity, I wondered if it would have changed anything. Would it have changed my fate? Would it have stopped me from witnessing the horror that awaited me?
Would he have set me free if I hadn’t found him?
I would never know. But I should have known. I should have seen it.
Things had been set in motion before I even saw them charging full speed at me, the weight of a freight train slamming into me and stealing the breath from my lungs when I set my foot on the bottom step.
All I could smell was blood, the thick copper tang in the air making my nose twitch and my stomach twist.
All I could see was blood, the thick crimson substance coating every surface of Anderson’s dungeon.
All I could hear were the final whimpers of James Miller, my ex-boss, hanging from chains, his body beaten and broken beyond repair, his pale skin glazed with the infusion of his own blood, and his dead eyes seeking me out as if to warn me.
But his warning was too late.
Anderson spun around when the scream that had grown and matured in my gut ripped out of my mouth and my knees buckled, sending me to the concrete floor.
I wasn’t sure if it was by Anderson’s own hand or the smack of my head on the ground that sent me into the void of nothing but either way, I was grateful.
FOR THE FOLLOWING THREE DAYS I was in and out of consciousness, my mind incapable, or unwilling to deal with what was happening. I was vaguely aware of movement, smells and sounds, but the perception of my surroundings was nowhere near as great as the familiarity of the hunger in my belly and the panic in my chest that brought with it. Yet, bizarrely, there was an indistinct taste of chicken soup in my mouth.
The four days after those initial three days were a little more coherent. Even though my mind still refused to accept my imprisonment and clashed with my sanity, the sound of Anderson’s soft voice was confusing and the lightness of his touches even more so. His tender care and soothing words split my mind in two, making me think I had gone crazy. He affectionately bathed me, he attentively fed me, he lovingly whispered encouraging words yet he confined me to his basement. Although I wasn’t tied down he kept the door locked. I was free to move about the large area, yet I didn’t move from the soft bed I had woken on.
My eyes memorised the room that had become my home. It wasn’t cold but there was a cool touch to the walls and floor. The windowless brick walls were whitewashed and the floor consisted of huge slabs of severe grey concrete, apart from a small rug that ran the length of the bed. Chains hung from various points of the ceiling and walls. Sometimes the rattle of them swinging broke me from my restless oblivion. Along one wall a rack of whips, floggers and crops sat in uniform size categorisation.
A tiny shower room and toilet had been added to the basement and my new home was complete.
My mind played tricks on me during the first days, mocking me with memories I had refused to access for many years. Anderson’s face and voice morphed into my step-father’s, his cruel laugh and torments triggering panic-stricken fevered sweats and mumblings, the echo of my tummy aches and the chill within the marrow of my bones making my body shake with uncontrollable spasms.
I felt Anderson’s terror and confusion in these moments, the frantic softness to his voice and the gentle caress of his fingers as he stroked down the length of my hair strangely soothing me back into a numb void.
I wasn’t sure if Anderson had drugged me or whether fear generated the disjointed days and moments but I was thankful for it. I didn’t want to face it again. I didn’t want to accept it was happening to me again and I wasn’t sure that this time I would come out of it still the same person – if I came out of it at all.
The image of James’ dead, mutilated body plagued my infrequent moments of sleep, his dead eyes laughing at me and his twisted sneer claiming his final victory over me.
Anderson came and went. His regular visits to clean and feed me were just a blur in my head, a faint recognition of his presence making me attempt to talk to him. But, bizarrely, I found myself powerless against the restrictions running through me, like my words were locked up tight and my tongue couldn’t form what I was trying to communicate.
However, very slowly, over the next several days, the terrors and the bouts of disorientation subsided, but then came the periods of uncontrollable rage and stages of the worst depression I had ever known.
The first time Anderson came down to the basement when I was being plagued by the foulest fury started a chain of events that neither of us could have foreseen.
HEARING THE DOOR UNLOCK, I shot up. My legs wobbled after being laid out for so long, the unused muscles screaming in pain at the sudden movement. I had been out of it for so long, the terror of the past sending my mind into a chaotic insanity, but for some reason I had woken that morning with a wave of rage, both at Anderson and myself. I’d cowered to the situation again, the seven-year-old girl I’d once been coming back to haunt me.