Once the door was burning fiercely, Ethan waited. His lungs were still seared by the black smoke, his eyes were red and puffy, and he could barely open them. From time to time, he would open them a crack, to see how far the flames had advanced, and at last he saw them overcome the centre of the door. The spot where the lock was situated. Too soon, and he might yet fall foul of the fumes, too late and he would certainly succumb. He waited as long as seemed to him reasonable, then ran full tilt against the door; he took it in the centre with his right shoulder, crying out with pain as he struck it, but it gave, and he shoved again, harder now with desperation, and a third time, and the wood broke, the lock separated one half from the other, the door burst open, and he fell, head over heels, coughing and spluttering, bleeding and torn, tumbling onto the mausoleum steps, and down onto the thick snow, where he lay weeping in the sunlight, sucking in fresh air that tasted like the finest wine. Blackness started to come over him then, and sleep, a desperate, gnawing need for sleep; but he knew that the snow and the air would kill him as soon as smoke or famine. Pushed to the limit now, he got to his feet and stumbled across the curve of white field in the direction of the house.
9
Between Heaven and Hell
Thoughts of hell in high coffins filled Sarah’s head at every moment. She could not clear that glimpse of the spider-haunted tomb from her mind, the stacks of coffins, the final darkness of that foul habitation. Nor could she dig deep enough into her thoughts to eradicate all memory of what had been done to Ethan. That blow on the head, the heavy crash of the doors shutting him inside, the clunk of the key as Beauty turned it in the lock. What had happened to her, what was happening to her, was nothing when set against that blow, that cruel consignment to a fate of unimaginable horror. Perhaps the blow had killed him, she thought, thinking that the best thing. But she could not rid herself of the image of him coming round in the darkness, of the slow realisation of where he was, of the slow death he would suffer, of the madness that might take him before the end.
She shuddered, and tried to ease the pain in her legs, but as she twisted, the pain worsened, forcing her to turn back to her original position. The German had injected her with something when they’d finished at the lodge, and everything had gone black. There had been dreams, terrible dreams, nightmares really — no, more than that, a sort of hell without flames, a kind of passage through some underworld of misery and fear. She’d come round to find herself strapped to some sort of narrow table, with leather straps across her legs and hips and chest, and as she’d grown more alert, pains had started all across her body, and with the pains memories she wanted to destroy but could not.
Whatever drug they’d given her was wearing off now, but its after-effects lingered. Her head was pounding, her brain felt as though a master chef had sliced it into thin pieces, her skin crawled as though ten thousand spiders from hell were dancing a tarantella across her flesh, her stomach heaved as though some dark poisoned wine had been poured down her throat.
But none of these pains and discomforts troubled her half as much as the bruising and burning she felt between her legs. She squeezed her eyes shut against tears, as vivid memories of the rape flashed through her mind. Her heart lurched again as the memories acquired detail, as if each loathsome moment had been stored in her body.
It was, of course, a mistake to speak of ‘the rape’, for they had raped her more than once, taking turns. How many times, she could not be entirely sure; but the agony of being taken by force, without response or will on her part, the stench of the big man’s body, the mechanical thrusting, the tearing, the knowledge that this was done, not for anyone’s pleasure, but as a token of humiliation and as a warning — all this had choked and bewildered her, cutting her off from her own feelings, turning what had once been an intensely pleasurable act into something monstrous.
The German (if that was what he was) had told her several times that the rapes were a prefiguration of what would happen to her later if she did not play ball. Where they were going, he said, other men were waiting, men who would gladly use her in the same way, carelessly, as the mood took them, or lust dictated. She would be left naked and bound for them, in a room open at all hours of the day. Sometimes they would visit her singly, sometimes in pairs, often in small groups.
Unless, he said, she cooperated fully.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she had asked. ‘How can I cooperate?’
But he’d told her to wait, said that all would be made clear in time.
They had raped her in the lodge, in the main bedroom. They had gagged her to stop her screaming. She’d been tied to the bed, and all the time, if she turned her head, she could see through the bedroom window to Woodmancote, a shadow in the darkness. The screams had all erupted in her own head. She wondered if either of them had AIDS.
As she grew more aware, she realised she was strapped to a stretcher in what looked like an ambulance. There was no one inside the main compartment with her, but if she raised her head, she could see a curtained window in front of which lay the driver’s cab. In an effort to relieve her physical distress, she succeeded in getting the lower part of her right hand free from the strap. From the size and design of the ambulance, she guessed it must be private. Were they taking her to a hospital or clinic somewhere? She felt cold at the thought. What would they intend to do with her in a place like that?
On her right, a venetian blind covered a side window. The cord was just out of her reach but, reinvigorated, she squirmed and twisted until her fingers gained a tight enough grip on it to pull. Slowly, the blind lifted, far enough for her to see out. As she turned her face to look out, the ambulance slowed down.
She saw part of a street with old cars parked by the kerb. A cart drawn by a donkey ambled past in the opposite direction, then they were passing a row of odd-looking shops. The sign above one read as Macelarie. She had no idea what language it was. As they neared the end of the row, the ambulance turned into a narrow track and the buildings were replaced by dark trees whose branches hung beneath the weight of snow.
She let the blind fall back into place. Much as she wanted to continue looking out, she knew it would mean running a risk should her captors know she’d seen through the window. Reluctantly, she slipped her forearm back under the strap and let her head drop down once more onto the stretcher.
At least she knew one thing: she was no longer in England.
Ethan got to the house just as fresh snow clouds mounted the horizon and began to empty themselves across the frozen fields. He had no key, and for a long moment feared he might not get back inside. He had no idea what time of day it was, or even if hours had passed or a day or two days. And it occurred to him that Beauty and the Beast might still be in the hall.
But as he rounded the side of the house and came to the front, he saw cars parked in the drive, including several police cars. They were still doing the forensic work, he thought with relief. He went up to the young constable who’d been posted at the front door.
‘I’m DCI Usherwood,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better let me in.’
It turned out to be the same day, early afternoon. Boxing Day. The snow showed no sign of abating. All things were frozen, the world was like folded paper. Apart from the cuts on his ankles and scrapes on his hands, Ethan had not suffered great injury. The police team all knew him, and were shocked by his appearance. He was filthy, and parts of his upper clothing had been charred in the fire.