CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Paula Gibbons opened her eyes to darkness. A gag pulled at the corners of her mouth and she had trouble breathing through blocked nostrils. The disorientation and the need to fight for air frightened her greatly.
Deafness was something she would not will on anyone. Throat cancer and the removal of vocal cords, being a smoker herself, was another, and the thought of not being able to hear or to speak was a nightmare.
Blindness was immeasurably worse. The inability to see where she was going or what surrounded her was something she could not contemplate. Blindness forever belonged outside the reaches of her comprehension. Yet, here she was, unable to distinguish her surroundings, certainly not what was sharing her space.
In minutes though the impenetrable darkness lightened enabling her to make out that she was in a room with almost no furniture or anything else she could identify. At the same time she came to another realisation. She was lying on a bed with her hands secured behind her and her ankles restricted at the foot. She could not move. Blinking away tears which began to form in her eyes, Paula lay her head against the cold wall at her back and prayed.
Then she heard a noise from above. It sounded like approaching footsteps.
*
It was time.
He had carefully prepared everything and was ready to begin.
It had been simple up to now, as it was most of the time.
There were occasions when his meticulously thought out plans had gone slightly astray; through no fault of his but because of something which he could not possibly have accounted for.
But with very few exceptions his plans worked to the letter.
He expected nothing else.
He knew that the collection was the easiest part.
It was what came after which had failed him up to now.
Getting the woman here had been easy; with only a little force he had accomplished it.
Now she was below.
Waiting for him.
And he had prepared everything.
First, he had precisely written the words on a piece of paper. Two faint blue lines separated each word. They were in the exact same order as in the past.
Care.
Precision.
Exactitude.
He believed in them.
What he liked to call “deliberate precision” was essential for success.
Any wavering could be cause for failure and failure was something which gave him unbearable head pains.
He could remember sitting for hours clasping his skull between rigid fingers feeling the throbbing and the swelling inside. There were times when he believed his head would burst, spewing brain and blood over the walls, splattering himself.
After he had written down all the words, he slowly cut each into separate slips.
These he folded right to left, left to right, and right to left again.
Perfect little squares.
All together there were fifty-four.
He was certain he could have prepared more – the Masters had been known to start with a list of more than a hundred – but he knew it was needless. It would be impossible to get anywhere near a hundred.
At least not yet.
His dream of course was to emulate the Masters but he knew that right now that was impossible. It would take much longer to reach that point of excellence.
However, he would try.
And keep trying.
Practice makes perfect they say.
Carefully, with rubber bands that lay bunched next to the basket, he fastened a piece of paper to each of the feathers.
Next was the basket.
In the beginning he had used a simple bowl but after his initial two failures he changed tactics completely and began afresh.
Everything fresh meant he had a new chance of success every time.
Like those businessmen who flew between cities and countries each week or even more frequently. He used to think the chances of them being killed in plane crashes must increase each time they took to the air. But he read somewhere that such laws of average were faulty. Rather, each time the traveller boarded an aircraft should be counted as the first so the chances of dying in a crash did not rise with the frequency of travel.
It might not be true but it suited him to believe it.
So he started over afresh each time.
The basket was round, made of plaited wicker, with a Little Bo Peep arched handle. He had washed and dried it immediately after the last time in readiness.
Into it he dropped randomly the folded pieces of paper.
They landed next to the feathers.
The large square of clear plastic was near the door in the corner of the kitchen.
Silently humming a tune he had heard on the car radio as they drove home he walked casually to the drawers next to the dish washer and removed a large pine handled carving knife. It was an ordinary kitchen carving knife that would be used for cutting up a roast chicken or slicing rings of boiled ham but it had been honed to a glistening edge.
He ran it under the warm tap, turning it this way and that, making sure it was clean. It gleamed.
It was warm to the touch which was good. He didn’t want it cold. He didn’t want it to startle.
That was a joke. The knife would certainly startle.
Always it startled.
Just the sight of it brought cries and pleas for mercy, pleas which he mentally reasoned against with perfect logic, pleas which he might have explained simply could not be entertained.
He had on one occasion changed the carver for a short curved variety in the hope that its size would lessen the shock effect.
But he had been clumsy and as a result it had been one of his worst failures.
Not one he intended to repeat.
The large knife he rested gently in the basket.
The basket.
The papers.
The feathers.
The Knife.
He was almost ready.
Next, from the cupboard above the sink he took down a plate. It had bright coloured fruit designs on it.
And from the drawer where he had found the carving knife he took a sterling silver fork and spoon and knife.
The plate had been thoroughly washed already but the cutlery he now rinsed under the warm water and dried with a fresh linen towel.
These he placed in the basket as well.
He was ready.
*
She could now make out that she had been manacled to an iron bed, the legs having been cut down or removed completely because the mattress she was lying on was close to the floor.
Godalmighty, what was going on. What has happening to her. Was she having a bad dream?
Paula tried to sit up but before she got her shoulders and upper back more than a few inches up the wall behind her, handcuffs around her ankles started to cut in painfully and she cried out. As she jerked involuntarily the steel clasps around her wrists also bit.
Paula was terrified. She was in a place somewhere, she had no way of knowing where, and she was handcuffed to a bed in a space with no light at all. There were only two shapes she could vaguely define. In the area to the right of the bed, some way away, there appeared to be a table or chest. Directly at the end of the bed it looked as if a chair was placed. She felt as if she was on show. She had a feeling that she had been brought to this place, and fastened so she could not escape to the four corners of a bed, so that she could be watched by voyeurs. Or worse. It was only then that Paula realised for the first time that she was completely naked.
Oh dear God no. No, no, no, no. Please. Oh please no.
*
Bearing the cane basket by the delicate handle, he opened the door and flooded the steep staircase leading downwards with pale light. In the other hand he carried a torch which added extra brightness.
Placing the basket on the step in front of him he turned and pulled the door closed behind him leaving the wavering torchlight the only illumination. Slowly he began to descend the wooden steps.
After placing the basket on the sideboard in the corner of the room he turned and looked at Paula.
She looked back with eyes full of terror.
For some time he stood without moving studying her in the pale light, his eyes lingering on her thighs, her breasts, her fear-filled eyes.
He could see her choke back phlegm beseeching him.
For what?
To set her free?
To actually let her leave?
Surely it was obvious he would not, could not now.
Was she pleading with her eyes for him not to hurt her?
Was that it?
Was she promising him the world if only he would not hurt her?
Yet she did not have the world to give him.
She had nothing.
She was utterly at his mercy.
However he did not plan to keep her as a sex slave, to toy with her for his own gratification.
His intentions were quite different.
She was the fifth and he was confident that this time he would go further than he had with her four predecessors.
If he was careful, if he was extremely careful.
And if he was lucky with the feathers.