The Soul Room (21 page)

A little moonlight was falling into the kitchen, so I was able to
orientate myself in the charcoal-coloured light, and quickly spotted a big oak
dresser, it’s shelves deliberately and tastefully arrayed with lacquered
plates, vases, and an array of attractive tins for cakes and pastas. I shut the
kitchen door quietly behind me and tiptoed over to where the dresser stood,
imposingly, near the end of the room. I started with the tins I could reach
first, opening them as swiftly and quietly as I could. The first few revealed
sewing needles and thread, an old packet of boiled sweets, a little girl’s hair
clips, but no keys. I couldn't reach any more, even on tiptoe, so I had to get
a chair. I placed each foot of the chair down individually in an attempt to
make as little noise as possible.

Luckily the floor wasn't slippery so the chair didn't move when I rather
gingerly stepped onto it. I tried a couple more tins that were on the second
shelf from the top, but still nothing. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere on
the shelves; evidence of the small army of ‘help’ that the Amarena’s recruited
from the village and probably paid well below the equivalent of the English
minimum wage. All that was left now was an old, slightly rusty, Amaretto tin.
It was obviously used often though as the lid came off easily and silently. My
heart leapt and the baby kicked in unison. There was a single bunch of keys
inside. Rather than attempt to take the keys out and risk making a noise so
near to the hall, I took the whole tin with me to the back of the kitchen and
through the door that led to the small passageway to the cellars. At the end of
the corridor was the heavy old oak door that I had seen with Fabrizio when we
went to get the dessert wine. Luckily the key turned easily in the lock and the
door opened silently.

As soon as I got through the doorway I cursed myself for forgetting to
bring a torch. The residual moonlight in the kitchen had gone and the
passageway tapered off into a pool of darkness. Somewhere in that blackness, I
knew, was a steep flight of steps. Did I dare turn on the bare-bulbed electric
lights that spanned the length of the corridors?  I was getting very jumpy -
what if the lights were alarmed? Or, I imagined a window, or hole in the floor,
a shaft of light cutting through the darkness of the sleeping house somewhere
and betraying me. Another moment of indecision - I breathed hard, fought to
keep down a nauseas pulse of fear..

I thought back on the time Amarena had shown me the cellars, and I was
sure I could remember the way to the locked door he had been so keen that I did
not open. I played it through my head: down the stairs, second corridor on the
right, half way down take the left passage (no door here) at the bottom of this
passage two doors facing each other. The one I wanted was the right-hand one;
the old, ornate one. Then I would
have
to turn on a light - for as long
as it took me to find the keyhole and open the door at least.

My baby started to wriggle inside me. I stroked him and whispered that
everything was OK. I thought of him as he nestled in his own little dark world;
turning, feeling, assessing the space - just as I was feeling the wall,
gingerly assessing the floor ahead with my foot. It should be the safest place
in the world for him, in that darkness. But my darkness wasn't safe, so neither
was his. I was getting accustomed to the surges of guilt I kept feeling, but I
just had to keep going, put them to one side.

Suddenly there was nothingness beneath my toes. I had reached the steps.
There was a smooth wooden bannister. I held it tightly, gratefully, and went
down like a child - placing both feet together on each step before attempting
the next one. I counted fifteen steps and then I touched ground again. I
breathed deeply, gathered myself and moved on. Next I was feeling for a right
turn - there it was. The smoothe painted brick ended, then started again. So
the next one was the one I wanted. I felt again - my fingertips brushing
lightly on the stone. Then suddenly a snore, a loud rasping human snore,
shredded the silence. I came so very close to screaming, that the pressurised
air of it sat in the top of my throat like a plug. I released it slowly, second
by tortuous second through my nose. I didn't dare to move. As I came out of my
shock I realised that I could begin to define the shape of it. There must be a
candle burning in the corridor beyond. It was a guard, a guard asleep in a
chair. I would have to go past him, simple as that.

I would act, I wouldn't think. I breathed in again and worked out that
there was about two feet between the bulk of his arm and the frame of the
corridor opening. I pressed my back against the brick of the doorway and
stepped sideways like a crab. My great pregnant stomach came within a
centimetre of his elbow. I held my breath, he continued to sleep. I was past.
The relief I felt was soon replaced by a new wave of fear.
What if he wakes
up and comes to check on Dan and finds me there? What if I make a noise in the
next corridor and he comes to investigate? What if when I came back with Dan he
has woken up anyway and we can't get past?
It felt like everything I had
put myself through, all the risks I’d taken could instantly be for nothing. If
my baby and I were trapped here, Fabrizio would move us, he'd do anything to
keep the baby, I wasn't sure why, but I knew he would. He would find a way to
hide us or make us capitulate. No matter what suspicion fell on him, there
would be no evidence. He would make sure of that.

As if for the first time, the reality, the utter and irrevocable foolhardiness
of it all hit me. I could head back to Nonna's now. I could ring John and tell
him to come over. I could be rescued, safe. Surely Dan was wrong. This wasn't a
film, this was real life, and there was no way that Fabrizio could be as
powerful as he imagined. But then I remembered the conversation Fabrizio had
had on the phone. Dan was being moved very soon, maybe Tomorrow morning, maybe
tonight. This was it. This could be the last chance before Dan maybe
disappeared completely. I had to go on. How could I look my father - even my
child - in the face when they knew that I had given in so close to the end?

My eyes fell on a stout stick, some kind of club or cosh, that was leant
against the wall by the man's feet.
How hard would I need to hit him on the
head to knock him out?
I found myself thinking with surprising
detachedness.
How much 'leeway' is there between making him unconscious and
killing him
? I leant over and took up the stick. He looked very peaceful.
He was middle aged. He had a broad face and thick brown hair with smatterings
of grey at the temples. I remembered that the forehead was supposed to be the
thickest part of the head.  Did that mean I should aim for his forehead because
it would make it less likely that I would kill him, or that I should avoid it
as it would make it less likely that I would knock him out?
Just do it
I
told myself. I raised the club and every last ounce of strength and tension
left my arm. I could scarcely keep it above my head.  And then I thought of my
boy and how he trusted me; and I thought of how this man had allowed himself to
be bought by Fabrizio, that whatever the circumstances, he was helping to
imprison another human being against his will; and as if by itself, the club
came down with a kind of dense thud, and the man grunted and slouched deeper in
his chair.

Was that it?
I thought, my heart racing my breath - threatening to
make me faint. I did my birth breathing again - in through the nose, out slowly
through the mouth, the air came out shaky and ragged. After an agonising minute
I decided that the man was unconscious. He had to be. He certainly wasn't dead,
and presumably if I hadn't hit him hard enough he would have jumped up pretty
quickly to see what the fuck was going on. I wondered if the knowledge of how
hard to hit somebody in order to knock them out had become instinctive; passed
down from psyche to psyche by our ape ancestors and ten thousand years of wars
and conflicts. I decided it was time to stop wondering and get moving again. I
had absolutely no idea how long he would be out for.

My fingers trembling with adrenalin I shifted the club into my left hand
and the keys into my right. I headed through the door into the next corridor,
which to my relief, was already lit. The thought of having to make a noise made
me feel sick, but I couldn't think of any other way. Tentatively, just a
whisper at first, I started to call Dan's name. There was nothing. Then I
called a bit louder and at last, with an electric current of relief coursing
through my chest into my throat, I heard him answer.

His voice had come from a door a little ahead of me and to my right. I
hobbled up as quickly as I could and fumbled with the keys. The door unlocked,
I was almost incredulous at how easily it opened, and there was Dan. My dear,
handsome, brother; thinner, a little dishevelled looking, but otherwise most
definitely, absolutely my own brother.

‘My God you’re...’ He came over and I held him, and held him, and held
him; my eyes burning. ‘Yes, you’re an uncle.’ His cheeks were hot and wet
against my forehead, his body convulsing with silent sobs. The world fell away.
We span in space, just the two of us - a hub of warmth and matter in the
nothingness. It couldn't last forever though. The room came back, and the warm
dusty air, and the fear.

'I wouldn’t have let you...if I’d known!’

‘I know that Dan, don’t worry. Let’s just go, I...I don’t think I can
carry on much longer.’ I was holding on tightly to him as if I was clinging to
the face of a mountain; I managed to let go and my arms fell to my sides. The
cosh hit the floor with a dull thunk. Breathing hard, Dan reached down and
picked it up. He took my hand and led me back down the corridor.

'If only we could go through to the garden.' He said softly. 'But we
can't. It's locked on the outside too. They call each other on their mobile
phone when they want to be let in and the guard comes and undoes the inner
lock. To be in that cool night air, I'd give anything.'

I felt like a rag doll. I had done it. This was the end. Everything fell
out of me and all I wanted to do was lay down somewhere safe - a warm bright
hospital room - or my old bedroom at my Father’s house, and sleep, and sleep,
until my child came.

'Oh God.'

We had reached the guards room. Dan froze, staring at the unconscious
man. He let go of me and put his head in his hands. 'What have I done Maddie?
What have I made you do? My poor sweet Maddie!' He started to cry again.

I managed to move my heavy, tired arm and put it on his back. 'He's OK, I
had to. Come on.' I took hold of his hand and pulled. He gathered himself,
straightened up and took the lead again. He was breathing deeply, his grip on
my hand was tight. I was so happy to be led, finally to be led. Before I knew
it we were back in the silent kitchen.  Dan was hesitant now, he slowed down,
pushed me further behind him. The hall was dark, somehow, impossibly darker and
quieter than before. Automatically and in synch, we held our breath and started
to tiptoe across the polished tiles.

We made it across the hall. Dan moved towards the front door but I
stopped him, silently, gestured towards the sitting room. He was hesitant, but
followed me. We made our way across the thick carpet towards the French doors.
I sighed with relief, they were still unlocked. With a deep trembling breath I
opened the door. Dan clutched at my arm.

A second later and we were out in the dark courtyard. We would have run
across to the gate and out into the darkness, but we were scared of making too
much noise on the gravel, so I led him the way I had come, over the tumble-down
wall and onto the path.

'We must go to Nonna's.' I said hoarsely, pulling Dan to the right.
'She's the only person we can trust.' Dan nodded, I put my arm through his and
we carried on West, looking around us all the time, straining for any alien
sound. It was deepest night now and everything was moving with silence and
stealth. The air prickled against our faces. I was conscious of every step, and
time seemed to thicken, the more desperate I became to get to our destination.

'Once we're there we can ring Dad and he can ring John, and all this, all
this horrible...' I waved my hands wearily in the air, suddenly unable to
express myself, '...will be over.'  The words had barely left my lips when
there was a shout and the thumping sound of several sets of feet heading down
the path. Before I had time to react, a strong arm clamped itself around my
chest, pinning my arms to my side, and a hand simultaneously covered my mouth.
I tried to kick but I was held too tightly, and someone half pulled, half
dragged me off the path. Hands rummaged around my waist and sides, my phone was
taken. A stifled shout behind me told me that the same must have happened to
Dan, and the numbed emotions of the previous minutes disappeared and I felt hot
tears of fear slide down my cheeks.

We had been
firmly, but not aggressively, taken back to Dan’s room.  Although the men wore
balaclavas I knew one of them as the man I had hit; I recognised his clothes;
as if my act of violence had caused my brain to photograph the crucial moment.
Both men were clearly practised strong-arms and knew how to get hold of someone
quickly, and stop them getting away. They were wary of my being pregnant,
however. I could tell by the way they had held me, the way they now kept
glancing at me keenly through the gaps in their balaclavas, and the fact that
the word
‘incinta’
kept coming up in their conversation. Maybe they had
been expecting policemen, or some hired thugs, at least, not a heavily pregnant
English woman.

The two men continued to talk amongst themselves by the door. My rising
sense of panic had released a shot of adrenalin and sharpened my senses. They
were jumpy, anxious, one even referred to the shorter one by name before he was
roughly hushed. So now I knew the man I had attacked was called Mario. Maybe I
should try to plead our case with them? Did that ever work in these
circumstances or only make things worse? I had lived such a sheltered, safe
life in the scheme of things. There were millions of people all over the world
who were fluent in the language of violence and intimidation; either as victims
or perpetrators. This was the only time in my life I was sorry I wasn’t one of
them.