The Cellar, page 10
13
Myra Williams grimaced as a sudden stab of burning pain exploded in her chest, her upper abdomen aching. She put it down to indigestion, but a small part of her still feared the worst. Life had knocked her confidence. When her phone rang in the lounge, she was chewing two antacid tablets, washing them down with a slurp of still bottled mineral water. She briefly considered not answering but thought better of it. Maybe it was her husband or one of the girls. She was already feeling a little better. The pain was easing, thank God. The medication was working its magic. It was best to put on a brave face, something she’d been doing an awful lot of in recent months.
‘Oh, hi, Cerys, what can I do for you? I was just about to make some lunch.’
‘I just thought I’d ring and say hello. I can ring back later. If you like?’
Myra slumped into the nearest armchair, slightly out of breath but now feeling significantly better as the antacids neutralised her stomach acid. She felt ridiculous for thinking it may have been her heart.
‘No, it’s nice to hear from you. How’s the family?’
‘We’re all fine. Dewi’s in school, Mike’s in work and I’ve been doing a bit of writing. How about you?’
Myra sucked in the air.
‘I’m doing all right, all considered. A little tired as usual, but good other than that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Myra paused, wondering how much to say. ‘Has Lucy told you her news?’
Cerys’s voice rose in pitch and tone. ‘Yes, yes, she has. I can’t believe she’s going to be a mum!’
‘I’m so very glad she’s told Andy to go, and not before time. It’s going to be tough on her, being a single mother. I don’t think she fully appreciates that yet. But it would have been a lot harder with that twat still in her life.’
‘She’s going to be fine. I’ve still got a lot of Dewi’s old baby stuff – his cot, a buggy and a load of clothes. I meant to get rid of it all but never did. Most of the clothes would suit a boy or a girl. We’ll give her all the help she needs between the two of us.’
Myra frowned, ready to change the subject. As the months passed, there would be plenty of time for baby talk, assuming the cancer didn’t get worse.
‘Has Lucy made any further mention of that Moloch man?’
‘Um, yeah, I did have a word with her about all that. I told her my concerns, but she’s still hoping he contacts her again. You know what she’s like, always seeing the best in everyone. I don’t even think it’s just the cash. She seems to find the whole idea of the work fascinating.’
‘What sort of person writes a letter like that? I’m hoping she never hears from him ever again.’
‘I feel exactly the same, Mum – let’s hope we’re wrong to be worried.’
‘Has Lucy mentioned the talk she’s giving at the gallery tomorrow morning? I think she said it’s from eleven until one.’
‘No, I don’t think so, not that I can recall.’
‘It’s to a women’s group. Domestic violence, I think – something arranged by social services. I’d go if I were feeling any stronger. Just to represent your dad and offer my support.’
‘As soon as you are better, we’ll have a nice day out together, all three of us. A spa day, perhaps, the theatre, or a meal in a nice restaurant?’
Myra closed her eyes for a beat.
‘I’ll look forward to it. I’ve always loved a girls’ day out.’
‘I’d better make a move. I can hear in your voice that you’re tired.’
Myra yawned, thinking Cerys had never said a more accurate word. So much had changed. Even conversations could now be exhausting.
‘Oh dear, is it really that obvious?’
‘I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too. Give my best to Mike and Dewi. And bring my grandson to see me. I’ve been missing him.’
‘It’s only been a few days. How about Saturday? I don’t think we’ve got anything else on.’
‘Any time over the weekend would be perfect. And let’s invite Lucy too. She said she’d be popping around sometime, anyway. I’ll leave it to you to make the arrangements. Dad will be back late on Friday night. He’s getting a train from Paddington. It will be wonderful to have us all back together again.’
14
Lucy saw the old white van parked on double yellow lines outside the Lammas Street Gallery as she hurried along the pavement with quick-moving feet, a few minutes late for her presentation on Thursday 4 June. The seemingly ordinary vehicle came to mind just once as she gave her talk, enjoying the company of the women, who were both friendly and enthusiastic as they discussed modern art and its significance in our world. It was the kind of thing Lucy thoroughly enjoyed doing, talking about a subject she loved to people who were interested and appreciated her contribution. All in all, the morning’s events felt very worthwhile. For a time, as she stood at the centre of the white-painted room with the variously aged women seated in a semi-circle around her, Lucy forgot about her worries – Andy, her pregnancy, her mother’s cancer, the early-summer hay fever that wouldn’t let up. She simply focused on the task at hand. It carried her away and relaxed her. For Lucy, work was a therapy of sorts. Something she could fall back on in times of adversity.
It had started raining by the time Lucy left the gallery a couple of hours later. She was feeling good, increasingly optimistic about the future. She was, she told herself, a strong woman who could deal with whatever life threw at her.
Lucy briefly considered sheltering until the dark clouds passed, but as she looked up to the sky, she quickly concluded the change in the weather was likely set in for hours, if not the entire day. She had about an hour before needing to be back at the college. So why not enjoy a bit of lunch in that pleasant Merlin’s Lane café where she met Moloch while she had the opportunity? The meeting hadn’t gone to plan, but their food had been good. It was important to look after herself, get the proper nourishment and not overdo things, perhaps more important than ever before.
Lucy took a small navy-blue umbrella from her handbag, raised it and was about to stride off in the direction of the vegetarian café when a sharp two-second beep of a horn caught her attention. She looked across to where the sound had come from to see Moloch looking back at her from the open driver’s side window of a white van she’d noticed earlier, with that same friendly broad smile she’d seen before. He looked much the same as he did on the day of their first meeting: grey hair, grey beard and blue-tinted glasses with round metal frames. She studied his face closely, now wearing her contact lenses despite her hay fever, and thought that maybe her sister was correct, at least in part. Maybe he did look younger than his hair colour suggested. But to say he was deliberately trying to look older than his years? The very idea was laughable, a ridiculous hypothesis. Cerys worried about the funniest things. She always had, and probably always would. The girl should get a grip.
As Moloch raised a hand, beckoning Lucy to approach, she smiled back, thinking it was an opportunity to discuss his work proposition further. Maybe the chance was still there. Hopefully, he’d had second thoughts about the dates. Why else attract her attention and smile so very warmly? It seemed her earlier optimism had been entirely justified. Their unexpected meeting was fortuitous. Things really were looking up.
However, as Lucy crossed the road, she asked herself why a man who claimed to live in such luxury, a man who could offer her twenty-five-thousand pounds to complete a commission, would be sitting in such a dilapidated-looking vehicle. An old van that looked almost more rust red than white. But she assured herself there must be a reasonable explanation. Maybe she’d ask him.
Moloch met Lucy’s itchy, pinkish eyes as she stood blinking with her umbrella held above her head as the rain got a little heavier.
‘I thought it was you as soon as I spotted you leaving the gallery.’ He spoke with an unmistakable, eager enthusiasm that raised Lucy’s hopes still further. Everything about him was positive, his body language, expressions and words. Perhaps he had reconsidered. ‘I’ve been giving our meeting at the café a great deal of thought. It was unreasonable of me to expect you to drop everything to focus on my request. I let my eagerness for the project get the better of me. Please accept my sincere apologies. I’d be both delighted and honoured if we could discuss the matter again. I’d still very much like you to do the work.’
Lucy made a face. Everything he’d said was welcome, but the inside of the van looked so very dirty, even more neglected than the outside. On the other hand, Moloch was as immaculate as he had been at their previous meeting. And that skin, it was so smooth – lucky man. He really did look younger than she’d previously thought. She pushed her observations from her mind.
‘No need to apologise. I completely understand. I’d love to discuss the commission.’
His face lit up. ‘That’s good, I’m delighted.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what are you doing in the van?’
Moloch laughed, but it seemed forced. There was a hint of tension too. A flash of something in his eyes for just a fraction of a second. Lucy picked up on it, but she put it down to his likely embarrassment. She immediately regretted asking at all.
‘Ah, I thought you may be wondering. It’s borrowed from a mechanic friend of mine. I was lucky enough to win a Georgian oak sideboard in an auction. It is a beautiful piece of furniture with fluted tapered legs and a delicate design, dated about 1750. It will fit perfectly in one of my reception rooms. I like to keep some aspects of the place in the period. I’m in town to pick it up.’
‘I’d love to see it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, absolutely – it’s a period of history I find fascinating.’ Lucy smiled.
‘Okay, great, that’s wonderful to hear. We have so much in common. Have you got time now?’
‘I need to get some lunch before heading back to college, but another time, certainly. We should arrange a date.’
His quickly vanishing frown was replaced by another smile; not so warm this time, a little uncertain, but still enough to put her at her ease as the rain suddenly got heavier, large drops bouncing off the tarmac.
‘Well, at least come in and sit next to me before you get drenched. I’d love to talk again about what I’ve got in mind for my home.’
Lucy checked her watch before walking around to the van’s passenger side, lowering her umbrella, opening the door and hurriedly getting in.
Moloch swivelled in his seat, turning his slim body to face her.
‘There, that’s it. Sorry about the state of this old thing – I had a bit of a shock too when I picked it up. But there was no time for cleaning. Try to make yourself comfortable as best you can.’
Lucy noticed a gold-coloured metal stud earring on the floor at her feet. She briefly considered picking it up before deciding to ignore it. It seemed a potential distraction from far more important matters. She decided to take control, and get to the crux of the issue.
‘Just so we’re both on the same page. Are you saying you’d still like me to do the work?’
‘Yes, absolutely, if you’re in agreement and still available. Why don’t I run you back to the college? If delaying the work until the end of term is unavoidable, so be it. We can talk about it on the way.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘My car’s parked here in town, and I plan to get a bite to eat before heading back.’
Moloch reached down the far side of his seat, next to the door. Lucy thought he might have something in his hand, but she didn’t know what and gave it little thought. There seemed more important things to focus on. He suddenly pointed across her towards the gallery to their left as she awaited his response.
‘Isn’t that your sister?’
As Lucy turned to look, she felt a sharp stabbing pain in the upper thigh of her right leg. She looked down to see a syringe in his hand, the sharp needle deep in her flesh. She was already feeling drowsy, the world becoming an impressionist blur of light colours as she attempted to push his hand away without success. All her strength was gone. She was as weak as a small child. Her words were slurred, barely comprehensible as she tried to process events that made no sense at all.
‘What, the, what the h-hell, do you, d-do you think…?’
Moloch reached out with his free hand, grabbing her yellow cotton blouse, pulling her towards him, their foreheads touching.
‘Shut the fuck up! Just sit there and shut your fucking mouth. Struggle or try to shout out and I will kill you! I’ll cut your fucking throat. Have I made myself clear? Now go to sleep, give in to it, not another word.’
Lucy made one final hopeless attempt to pull away, to reach for the door handle. But it was no good. She could hardly move. Her thinking was confused and dreamlike, her nightmare all too real. Her head fell forward, her chin resting on her upper chest as he released his grip only moments later. She had a vague awareness of her new reality for a few seconds, but no more than that. She continued drifting away, further and further, deeper and deeper. And then everything went black.
15
Gove watched and he listened later that same day. He saw everything and heard everything. Even Lucy’s shallow breathing as she lay senseless on the cold concrete floor of her new cellar home. Technology can do that. And it did it now as he stared at the 98-inch wall-mounted TV screen installed in the spacious ground-floor cinema room he’d prepared for the purpose, complete with popcorn dispenser and a glass-fronted mini-fridge stocked almost to capacity with various canned and bottled soft drinks. He didn’t drink alcohol, never touched a drop. It was something he saw as an admirable example of his approach to self-care. His mother had been a drinker, that filthy skank of a woman from the darkest corner of hell. Alcohol could lead to carelessness, something he couldn’t risk.
Gove surveyed Lucy’s cellar prison on screen with gushing pride. It was all so clear, such a beautiful picture, and the sound was perfect, filling the cinema room as he turned up the volume, taking full advantage of the Scandinavian surround-sound speaker system. The cellar provided ideal guest facilities. The night-vision cameras were state of the art, the multiple embedded supersensitive microphones the very best money could buy. He’d researched his options online, chosen the equipment with the ultimate care and spared no expense with the installation because nothing mattered more. Everything had been in its rightful place to await lovely Lucy’s arrival. It was tried, tested, and now here she was as she was meant to be. The future held such incredible promise.
Gove relaxed back in his cinema seat, staring at the large screen. He touched himself through his trousers as he focused on Lucy, slowly licking his lips, first the top and then the bottom, taking in every inch of her shapely body, naked and helpless. It was good, so very good. Just how he liked them. And he’d demonstrated such admirable self-control too, not to tear her to pieces, not to kill her as soon as she arrived. This time was different. She was different. But she’d need to prove that. If she were to live, she’d need to meet his expectations. That was entirely reasonable.
He undid the zip of his lightweight green chino trousers, rewound the recording, then played it back in slow motion, fully appreciating the ultra-high-definition feature for only the second wonderful time. He could hardly contain his excitement as he wallowed in his success. He really had excelled himself. His guest had no privacy, none whatsoever. He wouldn’t miss a thing, however dark the room, and from any angle. And that made him feel like a god, an all-powerful entity with the power of life and death. There was nowhere for his latest captive to hide. Not for a single second, at any time of the day or night.
Gove watched as Lucy turned over in her chemical sleep, pulling her knees up to her chest, hugging them close, shivering slightly for the lack of a warming quilt as the cellar’s ambient cold began to bite. She’d be awake soon, still in darkness, confused, scared, oblivious to time or place. Day or night would mean nothing to her. And then he’d speak to her if it took his fancy. He’d welcome her to her new abode if he thought it would enhance his day. Maybe he’d utter kind words, words of comfort. Or a threat? Something that made her shudder, alone and vulnerable, a prisoner with no chance of escape; the first test of many. Her reaction would tell him so much of her character.
Gove became increasingly aroused as he indulged in his fantasy, picturing the fear in Lucy’s eyes as she began to understand her new reality for the first awful time. There was so much to look forward to; his most remarkable and darkest imaginings were becoming a glorious reality before his very eyes. Lovely Lucy was his. He’d made it happen. He’d done his bit. Now it was up to her to live up to his expectations.
16
Lucy opened one bleary eye and then the other. Her head pounding, the searing pain hard to bear as she attempted to blink it away with little hope of success. She instinctively tried to pull her summer quilt over her naked body to combat the unseasonal chill, but there was no quilt to pull. She reached out in every direction, trying to find it on the bed, still not fully awake. She raised her aching head, eyes flickering, looking around her, and seeing nothing but darkness. Not the familiar half-darkness of her night-time bedroom, but total, impenetrable blackness, without even a hint of reassuring light. She couldn’t even see her trembling hand as she held it inches from her face. It was as if she’d gone blind. As if some unseen force had plucked out her eyes while she slept.
Lucy froze, her heart beating faster, her muscles tense. Oh, shit! What the fuck? Was she dead? Was that it? Had she died? Or was it a dream? Maybe it was a dream. It could be, couldn’t it? Please let it be a dream. She hoped that her strange awakening was some frightening and unpleasant creation of her subconscious mind. But the aches and pains seemingly emanating from almost every part of her body told a very different story as a sudden uncontrollable, all-engulfing fear gripped her, making her shake and shiver. It wasn’t simply fear she felt; it was terror. Realisation gradually dawned; she was awake, she was fucking well awake. It was real, oh God, it was all too real.
