Rites of Spring

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. Emee is still scratching and whimpering on the other side.

‘Out of the way, sweetheart!’

She keeps on kicking, harder and faster. Five more kicks – the bolt gives way and the hatch flies open. Thea crawls out into the yard and Emee hurls herself at her, clambering all over her, licking her face.

Thea gets to her feet, brushes off the dirt and fills her lungs with air. Relief and Emee’s welcome have brought her to the verge of tears, but she mustn’t cry. She has to stay alert.

Someone locked her in, someone who presumably followed her to Svartgården. But who, and why?

She looks at her watch, realises that she doesn’t have time to go into that now. She also suspects that the answer isn’t here. The person responsible has too much of a head start. She must get back to the village.

She sets off as fast as she can, and finds the track almost without needing to ask her phone for help. As she walks she looks in vain for traces of the person who must have followed her, while trying to recall what she saw from the bottom of the steps. The person’s torch dazzled her, so she couldn’t make out any facial features, or even be sure if it was a man or a woman. The wellington boots aren’t much to go on.

It starts raining just as she reaches the car, a cold spring rain that hammers on the roof. She jumps in and starts the engine, but as she’s about to switch on the wipers she sees something sitting on the windscreen.

A little Green Man figure.