Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (life books to read .txt) 📗

hatch. She glances at her watch; it really is time she left. It will take her a good half hour to walk back to the car, then it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the surgery. Plus she has to find Emee.

She can’t help it; she has to at least open the hatch and take a look.

The recessed bolt also acts as a handle. She gets hold of it and pulls as hard as she can, but the hatch refuses to move. She goes back to the porch and fetches the crowbar; she also steps outside for a few gulps of fresh air, and looks around for Emee.

The yard is silent. Maybe too silent. The birds have stopped singing again, just as they did a little while ago. She suddenly feels uneasy. She clutches the crowbar, peers into the gloom beneath the trees.

‘Emee! Emee!’

Nothing. She can’t wait any longer. Either she leaves now, or she goes back inside and forces the hatch.

She chooses the latter option, and the hatch gives up the fight surprisingly quickly, releasing a gust of that familiar cellar smell. Thea puts down the crowbar, shivers, and directs the beam of the torch down the hole.

A narrow wooden staircase leads to a large cellar directly below the kitchen. A shelf obscures her view; the only way to see what’s behind it is to go down there. She hesitates. It’s getting late; is she really going to investigate a pitch-dark cellar? If she doesn’t, she might miss something important. She hasn’t come all the way out here to leave without following every possible lead.

Slowly she begins to make her way down the steps. The smell is nauseating, making her breathe in short gasps.

When she reaches the bottom, she stops and takes in her surroundings. The shelf is packed with old-fashioned glass jars; the contents are cloudy, but the labels are still legible. Apples, pears, plums, even eggs. Bottles of elderflower cordial.

Cautiously she edges around the shelf. Pipes, a rusty boiler, a huge pile of wood. She’s about to turn and go back to the stairs when she hears something. A faint scraping, followed by the creak of a floorboard. She looks up, sees a flash of light. There’s someone up there.

Rapid footsteps, a different kind of creak, and she realises what’s happening. She makes a run for the stairs, but trips and falls head first. Her torch bounces across the floor and goes out. She looks up and glimpses a pair of wellington boots before the hatch is slammed shut, and she is plunged into total darkness.

60

The crash of the hatch bounces off the cellar walls. Thea hears the rattle of the bolt, then footsteps crossing the kitchen floor, followed by the front door closing.

She is alone here. Alone and locked in a pitch-black cellar.

Her heart is racing. In her head she is five years old, or eight, or ten. It’s a different cellar, but it smells the same. Dampness, earth, fear.

She can already hear the faint sound of insects scuttling across the floor. The ones with hard bodies and vibrating wings.

She is almost paralysed with terror, but forces herself up onto all fours. Gropes around in the darkness, but fails to find the torch. Her hand brushes against something alive, and she snatches it back. Presses her back against the wall, wraps her arms around her knees.

She is alone. No one knows she is out here in the forest, no one except the person who’s locked her in, left her alone in the darkness. She could die here without anyone realising. Sooner or later the old house will collapse, like the stable and the barn. Bury her under a pile of rubble and dust, just as in her nightmare.

Her chest contracts, her breathing becomes shallower. Her vision flickers.

She has to calm down, stop hyperventilating before she faints. She is no longer a terrified little girl, she is a grown woman who has worked in war zones, seen people die, continued operating even though bombs were shaking the building she was in.

She fumbles in her pocket, takes out one of Emee’s poo bags. Breathes into it. The trick works. The flickering stops, her pulse slows.

She must try to think. The priority is to find her torch. She pushes the bag back into her pocket; her fingers touch something hard.

Her phone – Jesus, how stupid!

She brings the screen to life, clicks on the torch. There is enough light to find her proper torch and, maybe more importantly, to chase away the worst of the fear.

She checks the phone, but as she suspected there is no coverage down here. She climbs the steps and pushes at the hatch, but it’s rock solid. She searches the cellar, but can’t find anything that might help her to break out. Presumably the crowbar is still on the kitchen floor. Why the hell didn’t she bring it with her?

She sits down on the bottom step and tries to gather her thoughts. How long will it be before someone misses her? Before David starts searching for her? Not until this evening, or tonight. Will the torch batteries last that long?

A sudden noise makes her jump.

Barking. Emee is barking, right outside the cellar. Thea moves towards the sound, shines the torch on the wall behind the pile of wood. She can hear Emee scratching at something; a wooden hatch that must lead out to the front of the house.

She pulls down enough logs to be able to scramble up onto the pile and try the hatch. It refuses to move. Presumably it’s bolted on the outside, like the doors and windows, but unlike the hatch in the kitchen, this one must have been exposed to the weather. The wood feels porous, rotten.

Thea rearranges the logs until she has created a flat platform. She lies on her back, draws up her legs and kicks hard. After four kicks she feels something give way. After six she can see the light, finding its way in between the planks.