in a darkened room. Her wrists and ankles were bound, but this was an unnecessary refinement. In her mind she had been here many times before and knew there was no escape. One strip of light there was which could not be blinked away. It lay on the floor, seeping in beneath the door, and beyond that door on bare stone flags she could hear the sound of footsteps getting nearer.
She lay as still as the mouse which huddles in its cornfield nest, and hears the approach of the coulter, and knows what it means, but does not know how to fly.
Nothing remained in her life, no spur to action, no prick of hope. Nothing of past, present or future touched her life, only that crack of light beneath the door and the footsteps which were approaching it.
She had been waiting for them all her life. They belonged to the secret police who strike with the dawn; to the cruel rapist who lurks in the shadows; to the man she had loved, come here to kill her.
Now they were close. Now the line of light beneath the door was broken by a growing shadow.
Now the footsteps halted.
Slowly the door handle began to turn. Slowly the door swung open. In the threshold loomed a figure, bulky, still, menacing.
Now it was in the room and advancing.
Her mouth gaped wide as her desperate lungs drew in one last, long, ragged breath …
Wee sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
BURNS: To a Mouse
‘Trudi? Trudi Adamson? My God! Trudi, is that really you?’
‘Well, it’s me anyway,’ said Trudi.
‘Where’re you ringing from? Vienna? You’re so clear!’
‘No. Not Vienna. Sheffield.’
‘Sheffield. You mean Sheffield Yorkshire?’
The note of Celtic incredulity made Trudi laugh. Perhaps this had been a good idea after all.
‘If there’s another, please tell me. I’d probably prefer it.’
‘But what are you doing in Sheffield?’
‘Living here, Jan. I’ve been living here for three whole days.’
A silence at the other end as though this were too much to take in; then in a perceptibly casual tone, ‘And Trent?’
Trudi laughed. The second time in a minute. Perhaps in a decade? She said, ‘No. I’ve not run away or anything. Trent’s here too of course. That’s why I’m here. He’s been moved again. I thought when we got to the centre of things three years back, that would be the end of it. But evidently not. And this time, I got two days’ notice, would you believe it?’
‘From what I know of Trent, yes. But at least this time, he’s brought you back to England.’
‘That’s right. And naturally I thought, now I’m here and so close, first thing I’ve got to do is ring Jan and fix to see her.’
It was a lie.
The last time the two had talked had felt like the last time ever. Friends since school, they had seen little of each other over the past quarter century as Trudi drifted across the face of Europe in her husband’s wake. But they had kept in touch with fairly regular letters and cards. Then a year ago Janet’s husband, Alan Cummings, had died. They should have returned to the UK for the funeral, but Trent had pleaded a vital business trip. Trudi had fully intended to travel alone, but night after night she had started waking full of terror at the thought of going all that distance without Trent. Agoraphobia was what they had called it all those years ago when she had refused to leave the house after her father’s death. Twice in her marriage the terror had returned. Drugs and psychotherapy had got it under control. But here it was again and Trent had seemed callously indifferent both to her fears and Janet’s grief.
‘Don’t go then. Ring Jan. Tell her you’re sick. She’ll understand.’
She hadn’t. Grief, tension, drink perhaps, had combined explosively. ‘Neither of you coming, is it? Trent was one of his oldest friends! And you, you cow! Who looked after you at school? Me! Who got you your job? Me! Who got you your sodding husband? Me! And now you can’t stir yourself when I need you! Useless sodding bitch!’
The phone had gone down hard. Trudi had written an apologetic letter. There was no reply, nor had her Christmas card been reciprocated that year.
Trudi had resigned herself to feeling this chill on her one old friendship thicken into permafrost. She regretted it, but lacked the energy or the will to resist it. Had Trent urged her to action she might have made a move. But he hadn’t, becoming more and more distant and self-absorbed in the past twelve months.
But it had been Trent who, in the three days since their return to England, had become a passionate advocate of reconciliation. Ring Jan, he urged. You don’t make new friends so easily you can afford to dump old ones.
This was cruel, but he had compensated by adding with a rare smile, Fix up to meet her one day soon. Tomorrow if she’s free. I’ll drive you over. It’s only thirty miles over the hills. Then I’ll come and pick you up at night.
And again as he had left, he had said, Ring Jan. Arrange to meet. It’ll do you good, you’ll see.
Then he had driven away in his rented car, leaving her in their rented house. What had made Trent pick this place she did not know, but she admitted she was biased against it from the start. The move had been so rapid that her own furniture was still in store in Vienna, and the lack of the familiar sights and smells of her comfortable apartment there was a constant irritation, keeping her from that pleasant supineness which was her normal waking state.
In the end, untypically restless, she had gone to the phone and dialled Jan’s number.
And it had been worthwhile! Trent as usual had been right.
But now her naturally fearful view of life, her sense that cups are generally raised only to be dashed, set out to prove that it was as right as Trent.
Janet was speaking again. Putting her off.
‘Trudi, I’m sorry. But I can’t talk now. I’m sorry, but oh, crazy it is, and I should maybe have written, but it’s all happened pretty quickly, like your move, well, not so quickly as that, but quick enough!’
Janet’s Welshness still broke loose at moments of high excitement and hearing it now took Trudi back thirty years.
‘Calm down and tell me what you’re talking about,’ she said.
‘Well,
