James Becker - The Nosferatu Scroll

Bronson stepped back and tucked the camera into his pocket, a flush of embarrassment warming his cheek. He’d never liked the salacious attitude of the public — and especially of the British press — to accidents and crime, and he didn’t much like the feeling of being on the other side of the crime-scene tape, of being one of the morbid spectators.

And, he admitted to himself, he was probably just wasting his time. He had no idea whether the girl who was being carried away from the tomb had died by accident or from some other cause. About the only thing he was sure of was that it had nothing to do with the ancient mutilated corpse they’d seen the previous evening.

Turning away, he walked quickly through the graveyard towards the Cimitero vaporetto stop. He would go back to Angela, he decided, and they would resume their holiday and try to forget all about the vampire’s tomb and the dead girl he’d just seen.

But as the vaporetto cut through the waters of the lagoon, a part of what he’d overheard continued to nag at him. The radio broadcast to the sergeant had included the phrase ‘there’s been another’. This could only mean one thing: the blonde-haired girl hadn’t had an accident; she had been the victim of foul play. And she hadn’t been the first.

‘Sit down,’ the man holding the taser instructed.

Marietta knew she had to obey, so she nodded meekly and backed towards the bed.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, fighting to keep her voice level, to sound unafraid, despite the abject terror that had her nearly paralysed. She’d tried running, she’d tried fighting back; neither had done her any good at all. The memory of the bolts of electricity she’d endured from the taser still seared through her brain. She would do anything — almost anything — to avoid experiencing that agony again.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ the man said, his voice indifferent, almost conversational. He gestured to the other man who’d accompanied him into the cellar, and who was carrying a laden tray. ‘Breakfast,’ he added shortly, and instructed his companion to place the tray on the floor well within Marietta’s reach.

She eyed the food hungrily. She was absolutely famished, but for the moment she didn’t move. She remembered reading somewhere that hostages — and to quiet her escalating terror she’d decided that she was, for whatever reason, a hostage — stood more chance of surviving their ordeal if they could establish some kind of rapport with their captors. With no other options, this seemed to be the only viable course of action she could take.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

The man with the taser looked at her. ‘My name is not important,’ he said, ‘and I don’t think you’ll be around long enough for us to become friends.’

His words, and the light, almost careless manner with which he said them, sent a chill through Marietta, but she forced a smile on to her face. ‘My name’s Marietta,’ she said.

‘I know. Marietta Perini,’ the guard replied.

Marietta felt a lurch of despair. She’d rationalized that perhaps she resembled someone else, that she’d been snatched by mistake, and that once her captors realized their error, she’d be released unharmed. The guard’s matter-of-fact statement meant that she’d been abducted for a specific reason, and she didn’t like to think what this reason might be.

‘Eat some food,’ the guard instructed, pointing at the tray.

‘When I’ve finished,’ Marietta said, ‘could I please wash?’

‘I’ll have a bucket of warm water brought down, with some soap and a towel. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Can you please, please, leave the light on, at least while I’m eating? Just to keep the rats and insects away.’

The guard nodded, then he turned on his heel and walked out, his companion following.

The moment Marietta heard the cellar door slam shut, she picked up the tray of food and attacked it ravenously. There were bread rolls, butter and preserves, a small plate of ham and cheese, a large glass of water, a cup of black coffee, two cubes of sugar and a plastic container of milk. She needed the water more than anything else, and drank it all in moments, then slowed down, taking her time over the rest of the meal. She ate every scrap, then poured the milk in the coffee and drank that. She didn’t put the sugar in the drink, but hid the cubes under the mattress, as a pathetic reserve, just in case they didn’t bring her anything else to eat or drink for the rest of the day.

She scanned the tray for the last time, to see if there was anything she’d missed, or if there was anything on it that she could use as a weapon or a tool to try to free herself. But the only utensils she’d been given were a plastic knife, fork and spoon, and none of them would be of the slightest use to her. She replaced everything neatly on the tray, walked forward and put it down on the floor where it had been left.

About half an hour later, the guard reappeared, carrying, as he’d promised, a bucket of warm water, and with a towel draped over his arm.

Marietta sat silently on the bed as he lowered the bucket to the ground, and stepped forward to toss the towel on to the mattress beside her. Then he fished in his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped bar of soap — the kind found in budget hotels all over the world — and another small packet, both of which he placed on the towel.

‘There’s a toothbrush and toothpaste in that,’ he said, as he backed away to pick up the breakfast tray.

‘Can you untie me so that I can wash?’ Marietta asked, even though she knew her request was futile.

The guard shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’

In a couple of minutes, Marietta was alone again, but at least now she felt a little better. She’d eaten a decent breakfast, had enough to drink, and she was sure that once she’d washed her face and hands — and that was about all she was going to do — she’d feel a lot cleaner as well. And being able to clean her teeth was a bonus.

She dragged the bucket over to the bed and first brushed her teeth, while the water was still clean. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and slid it down her left arm and on to the metal chain so that it was out of her way. She unwrapped the soap and washed herself as best she could, her chained left wrist restricting her movements more than she had expected.

Then she retrieved her blouse and got dressed again. All she could do then was lie on the bed and wait for whatever the day might bring.

At least the cellar light was still on, and she’d not seen any sign of the cockroaches that she’d heard the night before. They were still there, she knew that, because she could hear an occasional rustling sound from the walls, but for the moment the light seemed to be keeping them at bay.

There was another thing about her captors that surprised her. Despite the brutal way she’d been grabbed from the street in Venice, they had treated her quite well since she’d arrived on the island. She’d anticipated physical abuse, maybe even rape, but apart from being manhandled after they’d shocked her with the taser, none of them had so much as touched her.

But that wasn’t all. What bothered her most was their air of superiority, of detachment. It was almost as if they felt they were above the law, as if they knew that the authorities wouldn’t, or couldn’t, touch them. She had the feeling that no matter what they subsequently did to her, none of the men believed they would suffer for it. And Marietta found this more frightening than her captivity itself.

Worse still, it suggested that she was a disposable asset in their eyes, a person of no consequence. Which meant that — short of a miracle — she was never going to get off the island alive.