Ursula walks slowly across the kitchen, her feet soundless on the tiled floor.
Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch. The sound, like a nail being repeatedly dragged against wood, is coming from the bottom of the basement door. Ursula’s knees click as she crouches down to listen. There’s a pause in the scratching then, scritch, scritch, scritch, the noise starts up again. Pressing one hand against the wall for balance, she peers through the keyhole but it’s so dark on the other side of the door that she can’t see a thing.
It’s just a rat, she tells herself as she backs away from the door. She looks back at the slab of corned beef lying on the chopping board and shudders. If there are rats in the basement they might be in the kitchen too. She’s going to have to call Edward and ask him to get vermin control in. If the rat makes it up to her bedroom she’ll … well, she has no idea what she’ll do. Stick it out or sleep in her van; that’s about as far as her options go.
Scritch, scritch, scritch.
She looks back at the door, weighing up the noise. That’s no rat. There’s no way little claws could make a sound that loud.
‘Go away!’ She stamps up and down, then grabs the knife and bangs the handle on the counter.
The scratching stops, for a second or two, then suddenly starts up again.
She turns on the radio and the chirpy, cheery voice of the presenter immediately blocks out the sound. She turns the radio off and there it is again, the continuous scratching and scraping. She stands very still, staring at the bottom of the basement door, her mind whirring. She assumed Edward had insisted on the radio being on at all times because he’s one of those people who can’t stand returning to a quiet house but now she’s not so sure. She sniffs the air. The horrible musky smell has definitely grown stronger.
A cold chill lifts all the hairs on her forearms. A locked door. A bad smell. A missing knife. A newspaper clipping. A landlord obsessed with keeping his nails clean, who doesn’t get home until late. And a radio kept on 24 hours a day to block out the noise.
No, she tells herself firmly, that would be ridiculous. There’s no way Edward is keeping anyone locked in the basement, no way at all. She takes her phone out of her pocket and looks on BBC news for coverage of the three Harbourside disappearances.
There they are, the three missing men. She tries to match their photos with the black-and-white image she saw on the newspaper clipping but none of them look familiar. What if … her mind whirs … what if the photo she saw wasn’t of someone that Edward had kidnapped but someone who was next on his list?
No, she tells herself firmly. There’s no way Edward would have advertised for a lodger if he was keeping people prisoner in the basement. Unless … a shiver runs down her spine … unless they were previous tenants. No, no, not possible. All the missing men were walking by the harbour when they disappeared. If Edward abducted them he would have had to smuggle them into the house while she was fast asleep in her bed. It doesn’t seem possible, although, looking at the dates on the website, one of the men disappeared before she moved in.
Feeling vaguely ridiculous she gets down on her hands and knees, then flattens herself against the kitchen floor, her mouth inches from the basement door.
‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
The scratching stops, making her catch her breath.
‘Are you …’ She pauses. She was going to ask ‘are you human?’ but that’s stupid. What’s a rat going to do, squeak no? ‘If you’re imprisoned against your will, scratch the door.’
There’s a beat then a scratch, scratch, scratch against the wood.
‘Oh shit.’ She breathes heavily. ‘Do you need food and drink?’
Silence, then a strange ugh, ugh sound like someone smothering a sneeze. Ursula backs away from the door, heart pounding in her throat. That has to be a person. She’s never heard an animal make a noise like that in her life.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ She moves her thumb over the keypad of her phone.
9 – 9 –
She deliberates. What if she’s wrong? What if the police come round and there isn’t a man tied up in the basement? What if she’s got it stupidly, ridiculously wrong and when they barge down the door they discover a rat? She’d never live it down and she’s had quite enough people laugh at her in her life. She could ring the RSPCA or pest control instead? No, she can’t because she’s got no way of letting them into the basement. But it can’t be a rat behind the locked door. And she’s never heard a dog or a cat go ugh, ugh.
She needs to find out what’s going on in the basement and she needs to do it alone. If she could just peek through the keyhole or under the door. Or—
A memory flashes in her mind as she looks towards the kitchen door. She saw a window yesterday, when she went outside to rescue the bird. It was half-hidden in the gravel against the wall of the house, the glass obscured with white paint.
Ursula kneels on the pebbles at the back of the house, a large rock that she found at the back of the garden on the ground beside her.
‘Hello!’ she says. ‘I’m going to break the window and get you out.’
She feels stupid even as she says it; the window’s sealed shut and she’s pretty certain that whoever, or whatever, is in the basement won’t be able to hear a thing.
‘Right.’ She sits back on her heels and picks up the rock. She holds it to her chest like a netball. The glass looks thick and she’s going to have to throw it with some force. ‘Here we go.’
Before she loses her nerve, she says, ‘Three, two, one,’ and then throws.
There’s an almighty crash as the rock disappears through the glass, then a boom as it hits the floor. Ursula listens for a scream or a shriek or a moan. When none comes she snatches up the wooden spoon she took from the kitchen and stabs at the sharp shards of glass still embedded in the window. When the most lethal-looking pieces have fallen away she places oven gloves on both hands, carefully grips the frame and eases her head through the gap.
‘Hello?’ Her voice echoes around the basement. ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’
It takes a while for her eyes to adjust to the gloom and at first all she can see are the stone stairs that lead up to the kitchen and a ton of cardboard boxes and then … she inhales sharply.
‘Oh holy fuck.’