Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

She tried banging on her door again, to no avail. She tried to estimate how long she had been in the dungeon. Fifteen hours? Sixteen?

Although she was only a light, social smoker, she suddenly felt the craving for a cigarette. A few puffs might relieve the tension cramps in her stomach, but she would not beg him for nicotine. Food and water were more important.

The heaviness of time became increasingly unendurable. In the darkness she was lost. Only the light-and his face on the black-and-white TV screen of the grille-would help her to gauge the passage of time. She felt as if she were being swilled around like a goldfish in a tiny polythene bag on the back of the rickety horse and cart of the rag-and-bone man. Tom-that was his name. He would shout “Rag-Bonnnn-er. Scrap metaaaal.” He used to give her balloons when she was a little girl, but she had wanted a goldfish. She had felt sorry for the trapped fish, so she asked her father whether they ever suffered from seasickness. Were goldfish aware of water? She was beginning to feel the same about the concept of time. The hours, she suspected, would become meaningless; she could only measure time by her feelings. And all she felt now was fear.

Marda heard again the muffled opening of a second door and then a lower tone of the thudding closure of a door and a metallic click. She presumed he was locking the door into the corridor outside her-their-cells. Perhaps it wasn’t “Michael.” Perhaps it was a female warder or kidnapper. But by now she had begun to discount the kidnapping theory. That didn’t make sense if five or six girls were all locked up together. For a fleeting moment she thought that it was all some elaborate practical joke. But that would be crazy, she realised, especially as she could have choked to death on whatever it was “they” had used to knock her out. Maybe it was illegal, criminal…or political. No, he was mad-as simple and as horrifying as that. If only she could make contact with the other women, she could find out what on earth was going on.

Unexpectedly, the grille slid open and the light flooded in. She heard his deep, cultured voice say with mock subservience, “Toast with marmalade, mademoiselle , and some more herbal tea. Please tell me if you would prefer coffee next time.”

She had dreaded his coming, but, oh, the light. And food. And some kind of company. Even his. And that voice. It was almost comforting despite its terrifying chill.

Duval passed her a small plate with two pieces of toast and a mug. As he went to close the grille, Marda begged, “Please, leave it open a little, just so I can see what I’m doing.” There was no response. “And please may I have my clothes?” she pleaded. Still he said nothing, but before he walked back up the corridor he left the grille open a few inches.

She crunched her way through the toast and gulped down the scented tea, desperate for nourishment. Only when she finished did she look to see if there was anything she could spot in the cell. The single feature she had missed was a small air vent which fed from the corridor into the inner wall of the cell.

Drinking the tea made Marda realise how much she needed to urinate. She wondered why she hadn’t felt this need before. Was it shock, or perhaps she had been in the cell for less time than she thought? However long it was, she knew she had to respond to the call of nature immediately. Was Duval still there? She had not heard the outer door.

“Michael, are you there?” she called. She thought how best to placate him. “Thank you for the tea and toast,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “But please can you let me go to the lavatory? I haven’t been since before you…you… brought me here. Please.” The panic in her voice was rising. “There is already a mess in here with my being sick. Please let me go to a bathroom, and then may I put some clothes on before I die of pneumonia?”

She heard him open the outside door. She couldn’t see much out of the grille even when she stood on the wooden bench, and her attempts to push the grille open wider were futile. She could just make out what looked like another cell door opposite, and a stone and timber ceiling with an unusual light fitting.

“Hey! Hey!” she half-shouted, half-whispered. “Hey, is there anyone there? Can you hear me?” Her voice echoed a little in the corridor.

“ I can hear you,” Duval suddenly said, though she couldn’t see him. “I will introduce you to the rest of your companions later. For the moment, you can use this.” He appeared carrying a small porcelain chamber-pot, and proffered it through the grille.

“I can’t use that thing,” Marda snorted in disgust. “Please let me out to use a proper toilet.”

Duval let the chamber-pot crash to the ground. The impact made Marda jump, then instinctively cower into a ball as she tried to avoid the flying shards and the noise so monstrously amplified in the confined space.

“You should do what I suggest,” said Duval quietly, as the echoes died away. “Now you must wait.”

“I can’t wait,” sobbed Marda. “And, oh God, please don’t shut the light out.” But there was total darkness, and then the noise of the closing of the outer door. And all Marda could think of was which corner of her cell she would use to relieve herself.

She squatted in the corner and felt her muscles relax, even as tears stung her eyes. There was nothing with which to dry herself. Later, sitting on her wooden bench, she felt her bowels churn. How could she live alongside her own faeces? She felt as though she had reverted to childhood. Faced with soiling herself, she would have to use the floor. He would control even her toilet habits.

Marda was cold, frightened and sickened by the stale smell of urine and vomit. For a fleeting second she thought of death: I would prefer suicide to suffering in this hell on earth. Then she became angry at such a thought. Damn you, whatever you are, I will survive, I will sort this out and get myself out of here. If I think like a victim, she told herself, I will become a victim. Her defiance, too, was only a passing impulse. She felt so weak, so vulnerable. She wanted to stay alive, and to stay sane.

Part of keeping sane was keeping time. It seemed that she’d been his captive for many hours, but she wasn’t sure how many. If only he hadn’t taken her watch. She also wondered where she was. How can it happen, she asked herself, that you have no idea which part of the country you are in?

Then, suddenly, the noise of the outer door. The footsteps. The sliding of the grille, the light. That face, the power in it. The voice, its innate sense of command.

“I hope you will do what I suggest this time,” he said sternly. Clearly pleased with himself, he stood back and held up a large round canister for Marda to see. “I have brought you a portable lavatory. It’s what they use in caravans, I believe. I have also brought you some cleaning materials and a rubbish bag so that you can tidy your…your room. To give you the toilet, I need to unlock your door. If we are to avoid unpleasantness, you will have to do as I ask. I am going to pass you through a pair of handcuffs. Please attach one manacle to your left wrist and the other to the small metal loop at the end of your bench. I am not going to harm you. I had a very alarming experience with one of the other ladies here who caught me off guard. This will not happen again.”

More degradation, thought Marda. “Please don’t expect me to handcuff myself,” she beseeched him. “Can’t you see I’m cold and sick and frightened. How could I attack you? You’re twice my size.”

“Here are the handcuffs,” he said, undeterred. “Please do what I say.”

Marda knew she could not stand the indignity of defecating on the tiny bit of floor space. Reluctantly, she took the cuffs, found the small loop on the bench and clamped one manacle to it, then encircled her left wrist with the cold metal of the other. Once Duval was sure she was secured, he unlocked the door and stepped in. The metal toilet was dumped on the floor, without ceremony. Marda, shivering in her bra and pants, handcuffed to a bench, could not have presented a more pitiful tableau.