Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Pity did not seem to be part of Duval’s psychological make-up, however. He merely wrinkled his noise in distaste and said, “You’d better clean this room up. It doesn’t smell very healthy in here. I’ll return in fifteen minutes or so. If it’s clean, I shall provide you with some clothing. I do appreciate that you may be cold.”

He left the cell, locking the door behind him, then through the grille he offered her the key to the handcuffs. She could only just reach with her right hand. After she had undone the cuffs, he asked her to return them, with the key, through the opening. “This procedure we will observe carefully-until I can trust you. As I said, I shall be back in fifteen minutes. It would be to your advantage to make good use of this time by cleaning up.”

He sounded like a headmaster, thought Marda.

Duval soon returned. The handcuff procedure was repeated and he removed the broom and cleaning bucket. Then he produced a shapeless black garment which he laid on the bench a few inches from Marda’s bare thighs, goosepimpled with fear and cold. He did not touch her and he avoided her eyes. Quickly, he locked the door and handed her the key again through the grille. After undoing the manacles, she dutifully placed them in his cupped hand protruding through the grille.

“That is something for you to wear,” he said pointing. “Please, it’s warm, put it on.”

Marda examined the coarse black wool.

“What’s this?” she said, trying her best to humour him. “It looks like something someone graduated in.”

“You have not graduated yet, Marda,” said Duval, no amusement in his voice. “This is a garment that novice nuns must wear in the order of Saint Benedict.”

“Am I in the cellar of a convent?” Marda asked quickly, thinking he had given her a clue.

“No,” said Duval coldly. “Any more questions?”

“Have you got something that I can wear underneath this?” She fingered the heavy cloth. “It will be very rough and itchy next to my bare skin.”

“It is usually worn by nuns without an undergown, so that is how you will wear it. It is not worn for pleasure. You have a choice. Wear it or not. It depends on how cold you get.”

Marda’s eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth, but she did not say anything. And she was very cold, embarrassed at being in just her underclothes and still in shock; so she pulled the heavy black garment over her head and shuddered with the roughness. She stood stiffly, to try to keep the coarse gown away from her skin.

She still would not give in. “If you won’t give me back my own shoes, may I ask whether there are witches’ shoes to match this outfit?” she enquired sarcastically.

“Normally stout black boots, with extended laces, are worn with dark leggings,” answered Duval with pedantic dignity. “I am sure something similar can be provided. What size shoe do you take?”

“Size…five,” Marda replied guardedly.

Duval thought a moment. “I think one of the other girls has shoes that size. I will check.”

Marda seized on this. “May I meet the ‘other girls,’ Michael?”

He smiled coldly and said, “Why not? As I told you, until I trust you, you will have to use these handcuffs.” He handed them through the grille. “This time you will cuff both your hands together.”

Reluctantly, and with difficulty, Marda did so. Duval opened the cell door and led her blinking into the light of the corridor. Her heart leapt and she even attempted to laugh: “This is not a good way to meet people. A barefoot nun in handcuffs.”

Duval did not smile.

Once her eyes had accustomed themselves to the direct light, Marda saw that she was in the middle of a long hallway. Three doors-all with the same grilles-stood on either side. A total of six cells. In front of her was a short wooden staircase leading to a trapdoor. At the other end of the passage stood a large, well-lit crucifix attached to the stone wall.

“Is this a church?” she asked when she noticed the crucifix.

“In a way, yes,” said Duval uncomfortably. Marda’s eyes swept her newly enlarged world.

“Are you really a priest?” she dared to ask.

Duval looked at her sharply, then tried to dismiss her with a feeble laugh. “So many questions, young lady. You said you wanted to meet the other girls. Are you sure?”

Marda was suddenly uneasy at his tone. “Well,” she said carefully, “I heard you speaking to other people. You spoke to Denise, and Dorothy, and some others. So I wondered about them. One gets a little short of company down here.” She tried to shrug her shoulders, one of her mannerisms, but realised that the loose black shroud she was wearing tended to drown out such subtle gestures.

“All right, Marda.” Duval’s shrug was more obvious. He banged on the nearest door with the side of his fist. “This is Denise’s room. I met her-let me think-about five years ago.”

Marda’s face froze: “She has been in there for five years ?”

Duval met her stricken eyes, five inches below his. “Yes.”

“Why are you doing this to her? Please let me see her…” Marda stopped herself. “Why isn’t anyone answering? Have you gagged them? Or are they all well trained?” Marda tried to suppress her panic with a touch of mock sarcasm.

Duval knocked again on the door. “Denise, may we come in to see you?” He called out: “Speak up, my dear, I can’t hear you. Ah, she has always been difficult,” he said almost fondly. “Here, Marda, let me presume to open the door without her permission. Then I shall introduce you.” Duval pulled out a ring of keys from his trousers and fiddled with the lock.

Marda wondered what Denise would look like after four years in his care, and tried to steel herself to stay calm, whatever she found. As Duval opened the door, an unpleasant smell burst upon her nostrils and she could not prevent herself from stepping back.

“Denise,” said Duval, amused. “Never good at housekeeping, I’m afraid. Rather spoiled young lady.” He opened the door wide and stepped into the cell.

“Denise,” he said expansively, “say hello to Marda. Marda, this is Denise.”

Duval gestured to Marda to follow him.

Marda did so, screamed and collapsed to the floor.

When she regained consciousness in the dark of her cell, Marda thought for a joyous second that she was in her bedroom in Woking. She remembered her big brown teddy with the torn ear. That memory could not keep the horror at bay, and the most awful image she had seen in her short life came back. She saw again the light flooding into the cell. A quick movement in the corner: a rat had been sitting on the bench, and had scampered into some dark hole when the door opened. Then the light had fallen on Denise. Her ankles had been tied to the base of the bench. She had no clothes. Her hair had grown so long it fell over her face and down towards her waist. She was gripping a wooden crucifix with both skeletal hands. Hands that had been frozen in death for over four years.

Marda, after what she thought must be three days, begged God to free her from her tomb, or end her life mercifully soon. Traumatised, almost unable to speak, she was barely able to consume the dry toast and tepid drinks that Duval brought every day. But, after eating the food, she became immensely hungry. He hardly bothered to speak to her, let alone, in his perverse way, try to console her.

Most of the time she shook uncontrollably. For hours she would curl herself into a ball, rocking back and forth on her haunches, muttering to herself. Random flashes of memory coursed through her brain, and songs came into her tormented mind, snatches of old nursery rhymes, modern pop, Gilbert and Sullivan. Scraps of force-fed school poetry jumped from hidden corners of her brain. Sometimes she thought obsessively of food and devised ever more complex recipes for dinner parties she would hold when she was free. She could not sleep, could not take refuge in dreams or nightmares. She imagined herself stranded in a huge circular tank, the sides of which were impossibly high, and where there were no handholds, just a smooth, shiny metal surface. Water kept flooding into the tank, and she could survive only as long as her strength held out to keep swimming, knowing all the time that she wasn’t going to escape and that eventually she would drown. After an interminable time, her panic became a rage, first against him and then turned against herself. What had she done to deserve such treatment? She felt like an animal. Waves of nausea swept over her, then feelings of abasement, of self-loathing, as she smelt her unwashed body, the reek intensified by the pungent aroma of abject fear.