21st March
Helen looked around the small room. It had a low, vaulted ceiling that was supported by several sandstone pillars. There were two doors – the one by which she had entered and another in the opposite wall.
The walls were also built of sandstone, and she assumed the room to be a small crypt.
It was lit by a single, bare electric light bulb.
The room contained three solid wooden chairs with carved backs and legs. One she noted on closer inspection to be a commode. There was also a bed and a small table. Finally, there was an electric heater, plugged into a socket on the wall.
Helen reflected on what had happened in the past couple of hours. She had been watching a ewe in the barn at Duck’s farm for signs that it might be about to lamb. She had then heard the sound of a vehicle and assumed that it was someone coming from the farm. She had left the barn and had encountered two men. Before she had time to think about what was happening, she had found herself in the back of a van with her hands tied behind her back and a hood over her head.
Helen had glanced at her watch before the hood covered her eyes so now knew that the van had been driven for just under two hours.
She had then been taken from the vehicle, marched along a path and then guided down some steps into this room.
She had asked her kidnappers who they were and what they were doing, but no one had spoken until she was here.
Her hands had been untied, but she had been told not to remove the hood until she was alone in the room.
Helen brought her thoughts back to the present and walked to one of the doors. It was locked. She checked the other. That was also secure.
She looked at her hand on the old iron knob and realised that she was shaking.
Helen held her shaking hand in front of her and breathed slowly and deeply until it steadied.
Bastards, she thought, her fear being displaced by fury at whoever it was that was responsible for her abduction.
The room was cold. She crossed to the heater, switched it on and was pleased that it immediately produced heat. Her kidnappers seemed to have given some thought to her wellbeing.
Suddenly there was a sound at the first door. A flap in the door had opened, and a tray had been placed on a shelf in the door opening that protruded into the room.
‘Who’s there? What’s going on?’ she shouted, her voice echoing oddly in the confined space.
There was no reply.
Helen walked to the door and took the tray. It contained several dishes with metal covers. It also contained an envelope propped against one of the plate covers with the words ‘Mrs. Hargreaves’ written upon it.
As she placed the tray on the table, the flap in the door noisily slammed shut.
Helen picked up the envelope, opened it and removed a letter.
It was hand written in an almost calligraphic, flowing script.
Dear Mrs. Hargreaves,
I must apologise for the manner in which you were brought here. Please be reassured that no further harm will come to you.
I regret that I cannot be with you this evening.
Please enjoy your meal, try to sleep well, and I will explain matters when I meet with you in the morning.
The letter was not signed.
Helen was still angry but relieved. This seemed to be another indication of civilised kidnappers, but what was going on here?
She pondered on the message for a couple of minutes then returned her attention to the tray. She lifted the plate covers to find a meal that looked delicious and seemed to have been prepared with care.
Helen did not feel hungry, but she realised that she might need to be at her fittest and most alert to get out of this place so resolved to eat what was on offer.
It tasted as good as it looked.
When she had finished eating, she looked carefully around the room for anything else that might help her understand where she was or aid an escape, but there was nothing else to find.
She then removed the mattress from the bed and propped it against a wall. She then took off her shoes and undertook the most focussed workout she had done for ten years.
She was exhausted when she replaced the mattress on the bed, slumped upon it and rapidly fell asleep.
~*~*~*~*~
Helen was woken by a door opening. She looked at her watch. It was eight in the morning.
She sat up on the edge of the bed as a short man of about sixty years entered the room. He was carrying a tray. The door closed behind him, and Helen heard it being locked from the outside.
‘Please don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Hargreaves,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry we had to bring you here in the way we did. I hope I will be able to explain.’ He placed the tray on the table. ‘I’ve brought you some breakfast,’ he continued.
‘What’s this all about?’ said Helen in a calm, neutral tone – not wishing to reveal anything about her thoughts or feelings until she understood this situation better.
The man sat down on one of the wooden chairs. ‘My name is Reginald Harris,’ he said. ‘I’m involved with a group that tries to help people to escape from cults.’
That was not quite what Helen had been expecting to hear. She thought that her kidnap was most likely to be something to do with Arkangel in an attempt to obtain the prediction texts.
‘Go on,’ said Helen cautiously – again guarding her responses until she had learned more.
‘We believe that you were either held against your will by a cult led by a Mr. Swan Morrison or you were brainwashed to be a follower.’
‘Why kidnap me?’ she asked.
‘Because we cannot help people unless they are with us, and the people we want to help cannot easily leave cults of their own volition. You are safe with us.’
‘How did you know I’d be alone in that barn?’ Helen tested this explanation further.
‘We didn’t,’ Reginald Harris replied. ‘That visit was a reconnaissance. It was an astounding piece of luck to find you.’
‘What do you know about Morrison?’ Helen continued.
‘Not as much as you do, I’m sure,’ Reginald Harris replied. ‘We know that he inherited some texts from Sam Collins, and we know that he has been attempting to use these to predict future events.’
‘It’s uncanny and it’s spooky,’ said Helen. ‘He’s made predictions for things he couldn’t possibly have known about, and a day or a week or a month later, things have happened just as he said.’
‘So I understand,’ said Reginald Harris. ‘What does he do to make the predictions?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Helen, shaking her head. ‘He starts with certain rites.’ She feigned a look of embarrassment. ‘But he’s always alone when he does whatever it is that produces the predictions.’
‘You have helped him nevertheless,’ Reginald Harris observed.
‘To start with, I was infatuated by him,’ Helen explained. ‘I did whatever he wanted because he was so …’
‘So charismatic.’ Reginald Harris completed her sentence.
‘Well, … yes.’
‘We find that’s quite typical of this type of cult leader. However, you sound like your views are changing,’ he added in a questioning tone.
‘During the past few weeks, I’ve seen him for what he is. He’s only interested in his rituals. I’ve just been used, but I’ve been too scared to cross him. Frankly, it’s a relief to get away, although …’ Helen paused to think of what to say from that point. Her experience with Waterford Amateur Dramatic Society was serving her well, but it was difficult to make up a complex story as she went along. She had once made an attempt to write a novel and remembered how easy it was to create accidental inconsistencies in imaginary worlds. Keep it simple, she thought.
‘Although what?’ Reginald Harris was intrigued.
‘The supernatural powers he can command produce very real results,’ she continued. ‘I’m frightened that he can find me – wherever I am.’
Reginald Harris anxiously glanced around him – a fleeting movement, but Helen had a strong hunch that it signified the acceptance of her story and concern for the secrecy of this location.
‘Mrs. Hargreaves,’ he continued earnestly, ‘the only way you and others are going to be truly safe is if we can take control of the powers Mr. Morrison now possesses. Will you help us?’
‘What would I have to do?’ asked Helen.
‘Simply tell us all you know about Morrison, his associates, the farm and anything else that might help us to recover the texts.’
‘I can do that,’ said Helen. ‘But I don’t feel safe here.’
‘This is the best place to remain for now,’ said Reginald Harris. ‘I’ll let you finish your breakfast, and then we can go over the details.’
Reginald Hargreaves rose, removed a key from his pocket and walked to the door – the one that had not yet been opened.
Helen was quickly running out of ideas. She could not invent the details Reginald Harris was after, and even if she did, it was not clear how that would get her out of this place.
She looked at Reginald Harris. He was a small man and did not appear exceptionally fit. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Harris,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘there’s something else I’d like you to know.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ he said, turning towards her.
The impact of her foot with his stomach totally winded him and produced an agonising burst of pain. He was about to collapse on the floor, clutching his stomach, when, from the blur of Helen spinning in front of him, there came the almost simultaneous impact of a foot to his head. He was knocked backwards, and his head heavily struck the stone wall. He slumped in an unconscious heap against the wall.
Helen took a moment to catch her breath. The results of those moves had been more spectacular than she had anticipated. It was interesting how it had all come back to her. She was on an adrenaline high as she finished her sentence to him. ‘It’s just that I thought I should tell you that I was the national women’s karate champion some years ago. … Of course,’ she continued breathlessly, searching his pockets and taking his keys and wallet, ‘I’m not as fit as I used to be.’
Helen took the key that Harris was about to use to open the room’s second door. She walked to the door by which she had entered the room, but that door was locked, and there was no keyhole on the inside.
She crossed to the second door and tried to listen for voices, but the door was so heavy that a party could have been happening on the other side and she would never have known. Helen lacked choices, however, so she opted for risk and luck.
She put the key into the lock and turned it, rotated the door knob and pushed open the door.
There was no one in the room, but the view took her breath away. It looked like a medieval torture chamber.
There were no windows, and bare light bulbs were again the only illumination.
Helen recognised a rack and a few other pieces of torture equipment from a visit to the Tower of London when she was a child. In respect of other items, she could only guess what their grisly uses might be.
Near the door was a small cage. She pulled at the cage door, and it opened. She returned to her cell and dragged Harris into the large chamber, pushing him into the cage. She reasoned that if he was secure, even if he regained consciousness, he would not present her with further problems.
She closed the door of the cage and looked for the locking mechanism. There was a handle on the side of the cage. She pulled it, assuming it would activate a door bolt.
There was a loud metallic clang as the iron spikes released by the handle sprung from all four sides of the cage, impaling Harris through his sides, chest and head.
Shit, thought Helen as she wiped the blood spatters from her face, I didn’t mean to do that.
The adrenaline high and the bizarreness of her circumstances shielded her from the reality of the situation before her. She even took a moment to ponder on the ingenuity of medieval engineering as the spikes withdrew without the need for the manipulation of any further levers.