Property of Blood (3 page)

“‘Take your boots off.” I did as I was told though it wasn’t easy in such cramped conditions. “Give me your left hand.” I felt the chain pull tight and another padlock. My wrist was chained to my ankle. Butcher. I hated him because he had kicked me unjustly and because the chain round my wrist was much tighter than it could possibly need to be and it hurt me badly. Even so, I prayed he would take the burning plasters off my eyes, but he didn’t. Why? If we were so far from help that they could fire guns, how could I possibly escape? I was inside a tent and could have no idea where I was and they would surely have ski masks on. As if he could read my thoughts—how many times had he done this before?—he whispered, ‘You can take the plasters off yourself.”

‘I was glad he wasn’t going to touch me. I held my breath, terrified by the thought of my eyebrows and eyelashes. I tore the long strip off and lifted a corner of one of the underneath ones. I tried to do it quickly and close to the skin. Pain is a strange thing. Women have their legs waxed, for instance—and the pains of childbirth can be devastating but it’s the reason for the pain, after all, that counts. That same level of suffering inflicted on us as torture or punishment would be unbearable. Once I had ripped those plasters off and seen my eyebrows and lashes embedded in them, I understood that I was going to have to develop a new way of dealing with pain if I wanted to survive.

‘Butcher wore a black ski mask as I had expected. He was big and filled the small tent. He whispered, “All the stuff you need is behind your head.” He threw my boots out, crawled out after them, and pulled down the zip.

‘Once I was alone I sat up very carefully, without making a noise. I had been told to lie down but once they were out of sight, my fear and subjection waned. I looked for my watch but they must have taken it from me in the car while I was unconscious. The tent was small and low and I could only sit up in the very centre of it. There was no mattress, only the plastic floor, but there was a sleeping bag and an old flowered cushion. I picked up the cushion and sniffed it. All my life I’ve been over-sensitive to smells. As a child I would come home from playing with a friend and ask my mother, “Mommy, why does Debbie’s house have a funny smell?”

“‘What smell?”

“‘I don’t know … I don’t like it.”

“‘All houses have an individual smell.”

“‘Ours doesn’t.”

“‘Yes, it does. You’re too used to it to notice.” Patsy’s house had a warm smell of cakes and ironing. I loved it there.

‘The cushion had a dusty smell but nothing offensive. I was grateful for that since I would have to sleep with my head on it. Behind me, as Butcher had said, there were piles of things: a package of eight rolls of toilet paper, one of twelve plastic bottles of water, a packet of thin, cheap paper napkins. Next to me, to my right, was a bedpan and an already loosened roll of toilet paper.

‘There were noises outside. I stopped breathing and listened. They were working, chopping and moving things. A rustling noise above me made me look up and I understood that my tent was being camouflaged with brushwood. No doubt they had living arrangements of their own to hide, too. It all sounded very near and I imagined the clearing as being quite small. When footsteps crunched towards the front of the tent I lay down. The zip went up.

“‘Slide forward to the entrance.” A hand pushed a tin tray in. There was bread on it and, to my dismay, the chicken with two or three bites taken out of it. Rucksack and Gun had brought it with them! It seemed incredible but at once I felt guilty. The rich bitch. Even supposing I ever ate meat, a partly eaten quarter of yesterday’s chicken was something which I would have thrown out without a thought and which in hard times I would have made into a soup or risotto for the three of us.

‘Despite my feelings of shame and my determination to force the stuff down so as to survive, I didn’t succeed. My stomach sent up spurts of air and remained closed. Afraid of punishment, I did as a child might do: I broke off most of the slippery cold chicken and tried to hide it in a bit of toilet roll in the tent. Then I took the thick piece of hard bread and kept it to suck on slowly with sips of water. It wasn’t much but I didn’t see what else I could do.

‘A hand slid the tray out a little way and a voice whispered, “Clean yourself with a drop of water and the napkins and pass them out.” I took this chance to suck out the thorn and clean the worst of my scratches. The cool water was very soothing to them. Only as the tray disappeared did I think I might have got away with hiding the broken meat in these napkins. The tray was gone. It was too late.

“‘Use the bedpan and push it out. Then pull the slack of the chain in so you can get in the sleeping bag. Get a move on, we’ve a lot of work still to do.”

‘I did as I was told. The zip went down.

‘It was very difficult to get in the sleeping bag. I managed by pushing my chained leg in first but even then, my thick coat slowed me down. After a long struggle, I got my arms out of the coat, pushed it down the chain, got into the sleeping bag and put the sheepskin coat on top. The zip opened and the bedpan was pushed back in. I was so exhausted by my struggle with the sleeping bag and by the day’s walk that I fell asleep without a moment’s thought for my situation.

Two

‘M
y foot was grabbed through the sleeping bag and shaken roughly. I woke up, still groggy. The smell of the tent, my aching limbs and an over-excited feeling confused me. Why was I so distressed if I was on a camping holiday? Then the excitement became recognizable as fear. Outside the tent there was a lot of activity, chopping and dragging.

‘A loud whisper: “Get out of the sleeping bag and come forward.” The zip only opened a little bit. It was daylight now so they wouldn’t let me see out. But I had to get out. Otherwise, how could I… I struggled out of the sleeping bag and shuffled forward on my bottom.

“‘Listen! Are you there? I have to get out to go to the bathroom.” Laughter. Two of them.

“‘Use the bedpan. And hurry up.”

‘I was panic-stricken. “I can’t! It’s not possible lying down.”

“‘Push your legs out.”

‘They were going to give me my boots. Thank God for that. I pushed my feet through the small opening and screamed as a stick or spade handle or something crashed down on them. As my feet recoiled there was laughter.

“‘Use the bedpan.”

‘It was difficult to manoeuvre the bedpan with one hand, difficult to use the right muscles lying down. More difficult because every muscle was stiff and aching from yesterday’s walk. I thought of yesterday and the cave where it would have been easier but where I hadn’t felt the need. And now I was afraid. Afraid of my own smells, afraid of being punished for some inadvertent wrongdoing. Thank goodness there was plenty of toilet roll. If only I’d remembered then about the chicken …

“‘Have you finished?”

“‘Yes.”

“‘Push it out.”

‘I laid a piece of clean paper on top of the faeces and pushed the bedpan out. Then I waited, alert and frightened, for laughter, comment, punishment. Nothing happened for some time and then the bedpan was poked back in. It was clean and smelled of bleach.

‘The zip opened and a black-hooded head appeared.

“‘Come here. Put your head down.”

‘I shuffled forward and lowered my head, cringing for fear of another blow. Someone crawled in with me. He must have been small because I barely had to move to one side for him. A new smell, oily. Was it his hair? When he touched my face his fingers were small and bony, his nails thick and sharp. Fox. He pulled a ski mask over my head, back to front so I had no eye-holes, and rolled it up to free my mouth. It stank and the long hairs of the rough wool went up my nose.

“‘Please … please uncover my nose. I feel I’m suffocating.”

“‘Shut up.” He crawled out.

“‘Come to the front.” A different voice. I shuffled forward. “Get hold. Be careful. If you spill it there’ll be no more.” He took my hands and curved the one chained to my ankle around a big tin cup. In my left hand he placed a spoon, squeezing my hand and directing the spoon into the bowl.

“‘It’s milky coffee with some bread in it.” I tried to fish for the bread but, blind as I was, it was hopeless and he had to help me. His hand was big and warm, and when he guided the spoon to my mouth his smell was pleasant. A smell of new-cut wood. Perhaps he had been widening the clearing with an axe or machete. Perhaps it was his job, he was a woodcutter.

“‘You have to hurry up, we’ve still got a lot to do.” He spooned the warm, soggy lumps into my mouth and it was hard to keep up with him. Do we feed our babies like that when we’re in a hurry, wanting to get everything cleared away, needing to get to work, to the phone, to the bathroom? And we expect them to go on gulping without a pause, mechanically so that they protest, spit some out, hit at the spoon. I didn’t do any of those things. I wasn’t hungry but at least this was easy to swallow. I tried to keep up. He tipped up the bowl and I drank the last part.

“‘Go back inside and clean your mouth. You can take the mask off.” The zip went down.

‘I was glad to get the smelly mask off and to blow my nose to try to get rid of the hairs. Then I waited, listening to the activity outside, the whispering voices.

‘The zip went up. I smelled at once that it was Butcher and tensed up with fear.

“‘Move over, I have to get something from the back.” I shrank away from the big black ski mask as it came towards me and he crawled past me to take a blue polythene bag from the back of the tent where all the stores were. Coming out backwards he stopped. My heart started pounding as I saw what he was looking at. I must have fallen asleep with the piece of bread in my hand and there were crumbs and lumps of it in the top of my sleeping bag and on the floor of the tent. The black head turned towards me and he threw the bag he was holding aside. There was nowhere to hide, no way to defend myself except by shielding my face with my one free hand.

“‘Filthy! Filthy! Filthy! Bitch!” A blow to the side of my head accompanied each word. Then he got hold of my hair and dragged my head close to his to be sure I could hear every loud whispered word. Fat and stale blood. I stopped breathing. “We’re not your fucking servants. You’ve spent your life with some poor bugger going round behind you cleaning up the filth you leave but you don’t do it here! We already have to clean your shit up—”

“‘That’s not my fault!” I couldn’t stand it any longer. What was the use of being submissive if he beat me anyway? “You brought me here and you chained me up! I could have gone outside in the woods. It’s not my fault!” I thought he would kill me then but another black head poked into the tent.

“‘What’s going on?” Woodcutter.

“‘Nothing.”

“‘Come out of there. I’ll do it.” Do what?

‘The head retreated. Butcher gave me a push. “Get it cleaned up, every last crumb, slut!”

‘He crawled out. I started cleaning the bread crumbs up with a paper napkin dampened with mineral water. I knew that Butcher wanted to hit me, whether because he thought I was rich or for some other reason, and that he would always be looking for excuses. How stupid that he should look for excuses when I was chained up and helpless, anyway. Or was it because the other two didn’t agree with it? I remembered the ones in the car.

‘
“Don’t touch her unless I say so. I’m responsible for the goods
…”

‘Who was responsible here? I had to keep calm and work these things out. They had to keep me alive if they wanted money for me. A blow to the head, a neglected infection, food poisoning, so many things could kill me. I had to collaborate, stay alive. I hoped Woodcutter was responsible. He had ordered Butcher to get out, so he might be.

‘The zip went up. A black hooded head poked in. I knew at once it was Woodcutter.

“‘Move over. I have to come in.” He crawled in beside me and lay on his right side, facing me. I tried to see his eyes but it was so gloomy in the tent and the eye-holes of his ski mask had been sewn to leave the thinnest crack. He was a big man, muscular, not fat, and his voice sounded young. There was a gun in a holster at his waist.

“‘Lie on your back. I have to do your eyes.”

“‘No! Oh please, no. It’s so dark in here, and I promise never to peep out—”

“‘Be quiet. It’s in your own best interests. If you see anything, you’re dead.”

“‘But I’m always in here. I can’t possibly know where we are and you all have masks on.”

“‘It’s a pain wearing a mask all the time. You’ll be safer if you don’t risk seeing anything.”

‘He was opening the polythene bag that Butcher had pulled out. He began ripping at a broad roll of cotton strapping.

“‘Lie still, blast you!” He yelled this at me. I was lying still, hardly breathing. Why did he yell? The noise frightened me after all the distorted whispering and yet his anger didn’t sound real. Then he whispered, “Believe me, you’re safer like this. Look, hold these squares of gauze over your eyes.” He placed them in position and I held them while he cut the plasters. One piece over each eye, covering the gauze, then long, broad strips from temple to temple, centred on my eyes, then above, then below, centred again. He pressed them hard to model them round my nose and with each successive layer I felt blinder and blinder, for no logical reason since I’d been blind after the first.

“‘I’m warning you—don’t touch them! Don’t ever touch them!”

‘I hadn’t moved a muscle. Why was he yelling at me? “I promise, I…”

‘He put a finger over my lips and whispered, “If you ever feel them coming off, tell me. If they see you trying to peer over or under them there’ll be trouble. Now I have to do your ears.”

‘I was dismayed. To be deaf as well as blind might be more than I could bear. I was afraid of going mad but not afraid of what he was going to do. I suppose I thought he’d put cotton wool in my ears and more plasters on top. I felt him change position.

“‘You have to lie with your head on my knees.” He pulled me forward and I lay on my side, curled up and with my head in his lap. I heard the zip go up.

“‘Here.” Butcher. I felt safe because Woodcutter was between us with his back to the opening. “You’ve to use these.”

“‘We can’t use them. She’ll never stand the pain, you can take it from me. She’ll go off her head and we’ll never cope with her. There’s no need.”

“‘Boss’s orders.”

“‘All right. Give them here.” The zip went down.

‘Woodcutter bent his face close to mine and I could feel his skin. He had taken his mask off. He whispered, “Feel these,” and placed my hand on what was in his. I understood.

“‘D’you know what they are?”

“‘Yes.” They were the hard rubber earplugs that divers use.

“‘I’m not going to use them because the pain would kill you but you pretend I have, understand? You don’t hear anything,
anything.
Now lie still.”

I lay still. He stuffed a bit of cotton wool into my right ear and poked it deeper and deeper with his finger until the pain was so terrible I tore my head away.

“‘Keep still. That’s cotton wool. You want me to use those hard plugs instead?” I kept still. He went on pressing until he seemed to have screwed into my brain and my outer ear was full. I heard him fish for other things in the bag and the sound of a cigarette lighter. Then a pause.

“‘Keep still. I’m going to drop hot wax from this candle onto the cotton. If you move an inch I’ll burn you. I shan’t be able to help it.”

‘The wax fell.
Plaff… plaff… plaff.
The soft noise moved through my head in waves, stones thrown in a pond.
Plaff…
Then more layers of cotton wool, its soft rustie as loud as the sea.
Plaff… plaff… plaff…
and more cotton and wax and more …

“‘Turn over.”

“‘Oh, please …” I was no longer tense. I felt as weak and helpless as a baby and I began to cry like one.

“‘Don’t cry! Not with the plasters on!”

‘I had forgotten, and now the skin under my eyes, my cheeks, and temples burned under the sticking plaster as though I were crying acid.

“‘Turn over. Breathe deeply and you’ll stop crying.” And again he poked deep into my ear, holding me by the neck this time so that I couldn’t jerk away from the pain.
Plaff!
The wax came again, and when both ears were covered I was in another world. I had to learn to live in the dark with two big seashells clamped permanently to my ears, with the constant, insistent roar of the sea in the black night. Out of the night an invisible hand came to get hold of mine, and Woodcutter’s voice murmured, lower than the noise of the waves.

“‘Give me your hand. I’ll have to take this ring off.” Patrick’s ring! My most precious possession! “Please don’t. Oh, please not this ring!”

“‘It’s for your own good. You’ll see. Now, remember where everything is. Here’s the bedpan and toilet roll on your right. Water and paper napkins behind your head. I’m taking the padlock off your hand now so you’ll manage better. Your coat’s here on your left. Get in your sleeping bag and lie still on your back until you calm down. Here, I’ve pulled the loose chain in for you. We’ll only chain your wrist to it at night and free it in the morning.”

‘Why? There was no night now except that it was always night. And what morning could there be—I remembered that morning, the bread crumbs, the bits of chicken.

“‘Listen! Are you still there?” My voice roared in my head. I was a sea monster. “Please listen to rhe …” I told him. I knew I was like a child telling tales but I had to do it. He had to get rid of the chicken for me because I wouldn’t be able to find it now.

“‘I’ve got to go. There’s a lot to do. The others’ll be back any minute—”

“‘You’ve got to listen!” The others weren’t there! I had to make him help me. “In a bit of toilet paper somewhere on the right.”

‘He found it. I got in my sleeping bag and he put his face close to mine to tell me, “The tent has to be kept clean. It’s for your own good.” Everything here was for my own good. “Do you want rats coming in? Do you know what rats can do to you while you’re asleep? They pee on you because their pee is an anaesthetic. Then they can gnaw away at you without waking you up. I’ve seen them do it to horses, gnaw great lumps out of their legs. The tent has to be clean. And don’t worry about those two dickheads. They’re pissed off as hell because they should have brought us your daughter and there’s a row going on with the boss. They’ll calm down. Lie down until it’s time to eat.”

‘A rest before lunch. Rules of hygiene. For my own good.

‘I lay still but my burning face and the roaring pressure in my ears gave me no rest. The only distraction from the pain was the thought of Woodcutter’s admitting there had been a mistake, the thought of my Caterina’s being here in my place. It wasn’t a mistake in the way I had thought, a mistake about my financial condition. They had simply mistaken me for Caterina because she usually takes Tess round the block at night and we have the same long hair. And to think that for years Caterina had been trying to talk me into having mine cut. She was convinced it would suit me better and look more chic for someone my age. But I never could decide to do it. My hair’s been long since I was about fifteen. Now I was thankful I hadn’t done it. A twenty-year-old beautiful girl would hardly have been safe from their lust, which I could trust I was. Caterina had never formed a lasting relationship and, though she never talked about it, was probably still a virgin. An experience like this would destroy her future. She was so fragile. Any mother would rather suffer herself than have her child suffer. And I’ve always been strong. If it was possible to survive this experience I would survive it. Already I had discovered that keeping my head still, though it didn’t stop the roaring, reduced the pain. That was thanks to Woodcutter. I had also discovered that sometimes he was alone. I must try and work out their timetable. When he was alone I could try and talk to him. I would have to be careful not to ask questions. I must try and make him understand that I was not as rich as they must have thought but that whatever I had would be paid. I had fought all my adult life to make myself and my children safe from poverty and there was no safety. Now all I wanted was to live. I had to try and eat and I had to appear perfectly docile so as to convince them—or at least Woodcutter—to let me out of the tent for a short time each day to move my legs. I could try, if it was possible to keep my head still, to exercise my muscles while lying in the tent, the sort of exercises I did when I was pregnant. If I didn’t move I could develop an intestinal blockage, which would be fatal.