Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, all concern. ‘Look, I’ll heat some soup for you and then I’ll have another go at that damned heater...’

I watched him open a tin and pour the contents into a saucepan. The Primus stove was already alight. I assumed he had left it on in the hope that it might heat the room a little. It hadn’t succeeded. Eventually he handed me a steaming mug of soup. And I suddenly knew with devastating clarity that I must not drink it. But I did not know quite how to avoid doing so until he turned his back on me and bent over the dismembered gas heater again.

The camp bed was in a corner of the hut. The concrete floor was rough and uneven and in places had cracked and crumbled away. I simply emptied the contents of my mug into the corner so that the hot liquid ran down the wall and under the bed, hoping that it would somehow seep away, or congeal there, and not trickle out anywhere that he might see it. When Carl looked round at me I continued to appear to sip from the mug and then, when I thought I could reasonably have drunk it all, I pretended to become drowsy and to lapse into deep sleep again.

After a while I was aware of him moving around the room. He snuffed out all but one candle and then lay down on the second camp bed. I listened to the sound of his breathing, which eventually settled into the deep, even pattern I knew so well. He was definitely asleep.

As quietly as I could I crawled out of bed and went to the door. There were two big bolts, which had been pushed across. I struggled to pull them back. I still felt weak and they did not move easily or silently. I was sure I would wake him – and I did.

He was beside me swiftly, his arms around me, still gentle, still caring. But when he spoke his stammer had reappeared with a vengeance. He had real trouble getting the words out. And I knew that was a bad sign.

‘My d-darling, my darling,’ he said. ‘Y-you mustn’t l-leave me, you know that, you must n-n-never l-leave me...’

I had not thought I could ever be scared of Carl, but suddenly I was very frightened indeed. He was not my prisoner, I was his. There was no doubt about that. I screamed at him: ‘Let me go, let me go.’

I even shouted for help, although I was sure there would be nobody nearby to hear me.

He tried to quieten me in the way he always had during my terrible dreams, but I would not be quiet.

Eventually he pushed my head back and forced something liquid into my mouth. I choked on it, trying not to swallow, but he closed my mouth and stroked my throat and eventually, of course, I did swallow.

Soon the blackness came again.

The next time I regained consciousness I did not seem able to stir at all. I could open my eyes but my arms and legs felt paralysed.

I tried to lift just a foot or a hand, but nothing would move. At first I thought it was maybe because I was so groggy. Then I began to panic. Although my eyes were open and I was awake after a fashion, I could not focus properly. I was in a state of considerable confusion in which the only stark reality was the sensation of paralysis. The panic began really to take a grip. Finally the burning pains in my wrists and ankles as I struggled to move my arms and legs told me what was really wrong.

I was tied to the framework of the camp bed.

Once I realised this my panic changed direction but it did not lessen. I wrenched myself upwards. The ropes cut searingly into my skin. I started to scream.

I could hear Carl’s voice making soothing sounds. His face was very close to mine. He was leaning on the flimsy camp bed holding it down, staring at me as usual, his eyes full of concern.

The shed, with its windows boarded fast, was only dimly lit from a couple of flickering candles and my focus was still a little bleary, but I was able to see clearly enough now. Although perhaps I had yet to grasp the full meaning of it all.

Carl reached out and stroked my hair. ‘Shush, sweetheart,’ he soothed, the way he always did. ‘Look, I’ve got the gas heater going. I told you I’d make it warm and cosy in here...’

I suppose the temperature in the damp old building had risen a little, but I was still shivering with the cold. My forehead was burning though. The shakes were hard to control. I wondered vaguely whether I had a fever.

Carl was still talking, his voice a kind of drone, saying the same things again, the same things over and over in different ways. ‘... It’s just that I can’t let you go, I can’t be without you. I can’t let them take you away. I had to make sure you would stay with me, so that I could protect you always. I would kill myself if I let any harm befall you. You know that, don’t you? You know I’d never hurt you, only take care of you. That’s all I ever want to do...’

This was worse than any of my nightmares. In many ways this was more dreadful than anything Robert had done to me, because I loved and trusted Carl so much. I felt betrayed. The man I adored had tied me up and was holding me prisoner. He had kidnapped me. And although I was still puzzled by so much of it, there were things I seemed able to see with sudden clarity.

I had a sudden terrible thought. ‘You sent the letters, you did it all, didn’t you, Carl?’ I whispered through lips that felt dry and chapped. ‘You sent those awful letters; you daubed that message on the cottage door. It was you.’

The accusation clearly shook him. ‘No, darling, don’t even say it. Why would I do something like that?’

‘To bind me to you,’ I said. ‘Just as these ropes tie me to the bed. To keep me your prisoner.’

‘You shouldn’t even think such awful things,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re confused, honey. Try to get some rest.’

I stopped struggling, and lay back against the pillow. I knew he was lying, that he had done it. All at once I felt almost devastatingly calm. It seemed that nothing worse could ever happen to me than this. Surely there could be nothing more horrible than a betrayal of this magnitude. For a moment or two I was overcome by a coughing fit, the palms of my hands were clammy, but when I finally managed to stop, I tried again. ‘Carl, I keep telling you, don’t you think you’re hurting me now?’

He had been kneeling next to the bed, hanging on to it. He sank back on his heels, then, and released his grasp. He continued to stare at me for a moment or two longer, then he buried his head in his hands. ‘I’m keeping you safe, my darling,’ he muttered through his fingers. ‘That’s all, keeping you safe...’

He was babbling. And still stammering. ‘I l-love you, Suzanne. I’m the one who saved you. I will always p-protect you...’

There was more, too, an endless stream of protestations of devotion, which suddenly seemed so meaningless.

I did not take my eyes off him. Neither did I struggle any more. I realised there was no point. I shut his voice out of my head and started to think back over the various threats and the way they were worded, and of the night that our front door was daubed with the red paint. The more I thought the more it made sense that Carl had damaged his own van, written the letters, Carl himself had been responsible for the shocking message in blood red, Carl was behind all the sinister threats we had received.

‘You did it, Carl, I’m sure of it,’ I said eventually. ‘I’ve been thinking about the night we got home from the Inn Plaice and found the door had been painted – you left the restaurant, allegedly to get me flowers. You were gone a long time, plenty of time to paint the door...’

He continued to squat there, his face buried in his hands. Then he started to moan. It was the eeriest sound, an endless low wail of a noise.

‘Why, Carl, why did you do it?’