Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

She started trying to keep a little store of food at the end of the bench, but one night she awoke to find a scratching sound next to her ear. Instinctively covering her face with her hand, she felt the brush of damp fur across her arm as something scuttled off her bed.

Marda screamed. She hated rats.

She wondered whether someone, in years to come, would find her, dead, with a rat sitting on her skeleton.

Marda tried to brush aside such terrifyingly negative thoughts; she would think constructively. Yes, she would find its hole, and block it when she had some light, but she would keep her little food store. She would make a small bag and hang it from one of the grilles of the air vent when it was dark, then hide it each morning. She didn’t want him to have the slightest suspicion of her plan.

Plan? I should be thinking of a plan to get out, she said to herself.

She estimated that in a few days-maybe, maybe, please-he would allow her to go upstairs, but first she would ask if she could walk in the corridor. Meanwhile, she did some press-ups on the bench during the long dark hours, to tire herself because she was sleeping so badly. She fretted about her physical deterioration.

She had asked Duval for a mirror to see what she looked like, to see how pale she was.

“Such vanity is entirely unnecessary,” he had said dismissively.

“Will you tell me then how I look, after so long down here?”

He had said she looked just fine. But what else could he say?

Duval cut out a small section of a newspaper and stared at it for five minutes. Before carefully folding it and putting it in the drawer of his desk, he wrote on the clipping:

“Surrey Advertiser, 19th November 1967, page 7.”

French Police Draw Blank

French police in Bordeaux have discounted the reports of a recent sighting of Miss Marda Stewart, 23, the missing Guildford employee of Phillips’ Wine Company. Miss Stewart was last seen in Guildford on 7 October 1967. She is believed to have travelled to France the following day. Two recent reports of her in the Bordeaux region have been checked by police and discounted.

A spokesman for the Surrey police, Superintendent Terence Dawkins, said, “We are maintaining our search for Miss Stewart, but we believe she is more likely to be found in France. Hence our close co-operation with the French authorities, who are continuing to follow up leads on the Continent.”

Marda had also been busy writing, trying hard to connect with the world outside her cell:

Dearest Jenny,

This is my third letter to you. Still imprisoned here. I shall try to escape by talking about our everyday life. Such thoughts keep me sane.

I don’t know what the people at work must think. I suppose that Michelle-who always wanted to go on the French trips-has replaced me. I suppose the police have been on to you. What did you say I wonder? Did they take you to my flat in Shere?

What has happened to my flat? Has Dad kept up the rent for me? And all my records? Do you have them, especially the Kinks LP, the one we always used to play. I wish I could hear it now. I told you all about Him in my previous letters, so I’d better bring you up to date on Events.

I’m not so cold any more. He lets me have a heater and usually gives me enough paraffin-Parrafin (spelling?)-OK heating oil-to keep it going. And although I’ve lost a lot of weight I’m not hungry all the time. I told you about the rat. He’s come back once or twice, but he seems as afraid of me as I am of him. But I still have my little store of food, perhaps it can keep me going for a few days if something happens to him-Him, not the rat. I can tell the difference! What if the police find him and he doesn’t talk? What if they lock him up?

I hate him. He is so frightening. Michael, I told you his name, his surname is Duval. He is Father Michael but I call him Michael. I am trying really hard to be his friend so he doesn’t kill me, like he did the others. Oh, Jenny, I so want to live-there’s so much I want to do. Just one hour-even half an hour-to be with you, going shopping or to the theatre in Guildford. Just one drink in the King’s Head.

Sometimes I don’t hate him as much. I have learned a lot. Mainly about religion. In some ways I hate God for letting me be here, being imprisoned by one of His priests. Perhaps he is not a real priest, after all, but he certainly knows a lot about religion. And I have learned about history. Every now and then I think I am in a crazy university, but I could walk out of a university and just go back to work and enjoy my life with you, and my other friends. And my family. I wish you could tell them that I love them so much. I could even hug my brother and tell him I love him too. I have never told him that.

Have you seen Jim at all? I promised to ring him back. Of course I couldn’t. If only I could tell him that I wasn’t ignoring him.

Oh! My poor parents. If only they could know that I’m not dead. Not yet. Not by a long way. I try to keep fit by press-ups and running on the spot. I suppose I must look awful but I don’t know because I haven’t looked in a mirror. I have had to give up smoking, which is one “plus,” I suppose. I’ve asked him for some ciggies, especially my own brand. I’d love a puff before going to bed. I never go to sleep straightaway. I’m either too cold or hungry or sometimes just too frightened. I have dreams-bad dreams- about seeing Denise’s body. Well, skeleton. It’s in the next cell to mine. There are five skeletons, I think, all within a few feet of me. It’s creepy. More than creepy, as you can imagine. Could you really imagine my situation? I am afraid to write how I really feel, to give in to total despair.

I am trying to be brave. I remember some of the mountaineering things we tried and how I failed some of the courses. I think I could do all that now. Sometimes I think I can be brave but then I get floods, yes floods, of fear. I cry until my body aches. I have even thought of trying to kill myself, but I don’t know how. Then I say NO! I will come through this! Talking to you helps, you know.

At other times I feel OK. Like he needs me. If he needs me, he won’t kill me. Am I right? Even when I am so scared I try to look happy, just so that he likes talking to me. I have to act, but he seems to know when I’m acting. He is clever; perhaps cunning is a better word.

There are times when he is almost nice. I almost feel sorry for him. Like if I was free I would help him. I couldn’t really, of course, because he has killed all those girls.

I wish I knew what to do. I have thought of trying to hit him hard and make a run for the door, but he is a big man. Looks athletic, although I would think he is about 45. He’s got strong hands. I don’t think I could get the better of him.

I felt better starting this letter. Now I feel it’s pretty useless. But thanks anyway. I look forward to seeing you soon.

Always your very, very best friend,

All my love,

Marda

PS. I still would like to go to Portugal with you for Christmas. I hope you haven’t given away my ticket!

PPS. Reading this letter for the twentieth time makes life sound so superficial. I want to do the ordinary things, but most of all I want to see the sun, feel rain on my face, hold someone’s hand, run for just a few yards, to live for a few minutes without fear, to tell my Mum how I adore her, to put my arms around my brother, to hear my father’s voice. It is these little things that really really count. Please remember that.

Marda wiped her tears on one of the two towels that Duval had given her. She carefully folded the letter as small as it would go, then standing on the bench, she pushed it into the air vent.