“THIS ROOM WAS DUG BY SOME PEOPLE IN THE WAR. I FOUND A DIARY AND SOME THINGS IN A TIN.”
The square metal Oxo tin had a picture of a bull on the top and an insignia printed in red, “1,000 Oxo cubes, halfpenny each or 6 for two pence.” It had caught her eye as soon as she regained consciousness. The dust covered rusty tin had been abandoned in a corner and she lay on the bed, staring at it in the pale glow of the computer screen. After Roger left the first night, she gingerly opened the hinged lid to examine the contents; hopeful it might contain a spare key for the room, though would have been surprised if it had.
“It’s just a school exercise book,” she muttered, taking out the old fashioned book with green marbled cover. “G. A. Blenkinsop. Diary of War,” had been penned in the spaces for name and subject and, with great curiosity, she opened the wrinkled yellowed pages.
August 25th, 1940
If you are reading this our plan failed. Yesterday, the Willards, next door, were killed by a bomb. One of Churchill’s. Part of his campaign of terror against his own people to incite them to fight against the International Fascist Party. We will not be defeated.
August 26th, 1940.
Started work on underground shelter today. Made trap door under stairs. Children must not tell anyone— sworn to secrecy.
August 27th, 1940.
Air raid last night. Worked all night. No problem with noise—big raid. Children helping nicely.
August 28th-September 2nd, 1940.
Too busy to write everyday. Working overtime at the office for the war effort. Then dig most of the night. Martha digs in the day as well.
She skipped forward a few entries, each much the same. Digging, digging, and more digging. On many days there were no comments at all.
September 10th, 1940.
Everybody working hard. 2 big air raids on 6th and 9th. Hid in our new shelter, felt safe. Throwing dirt onto bombsite next door. Warning of invasion given on the 7th. Operation Sea Lion is under way. Liberation is coming.
September 18th, 1940.
Digging finished. Using bricks from bombsite next door to make walls. Will take a long time. Battle of Britain officially over on 15th. Churchill lied—he didn’t win. The Fuehrer is re-grouping to liberate us.
September 29th, 1940.
Walls almost done. Stones for floor very heavy. Still no word on advancing army. Air raids stopped.
October 15th, 1940.
Room finished. Door seals well. Going to Hampshire for a few days rest.
Trudy idly flicked pages but there was nothing more. Just five pages explaining why her prison had been constructed. Reading and re-reading the neatly written notes, she wondered what had happened to the family— What plan? How had it failed? Her muddled brain couldn’t work it out and she was just putting the book back when something glinting in the bottom of the tin caught her attention. In the gloomy light she hadn’t at first noticed the five silver swastikas encrusted with diamonds, but now she carefully examined them; turning them over in her hands, wondering at their intricate beauty. Then, worrying Roger might catch her and take them away, she shoved everything back and squirreled the tin under the bed.
“MUM, ARE YOU STILL THERE?” enquired Trudy, kidding herself that the typewritten words were somehow breaking out of the computer and surging through the Internet; inwardly knowing that without Roger’s password, they could not. “I HAD TO GET MORE AIR,” she continued, almost apologetically.
“I TRIED TO GET OUT AT FIRST, I DIDNT KNOW I WAS UNDERGROUND. ROGER SAID HE WOULD LOOK AFTER ME. I SAID I WANTED TO GO HOME. HE CRIED AND SAID HE WANTED ME TO GO HOME TO. I PROMISED NOT TO SAY WHAT HAPPENED IF HE LET ME GO. HE SAID HE WOULD THINK ABOUT IT.”
She closed her eyes for a second, as if considering whether or not she should tell her mother anything else; then her sore fingers started again. “HE KEPT SAYING HE LOVED ME AND I SAID, IF YOU LOVE ME LET ME GO, BUT HE DIDNT. WHEN I SCREAMED HE PUT HORRIBLE TAPE ON MY MOUTH—AND HE TIED ME UP SOMETIMES, WHEN I KICKED.”
Suddenly finding herself short of breath she hurriedly added, “GOTTA GO,” and started another excursion to the tiny vent in the door.
“MUM, ARE YOU STILL THERE?” she continued, returning ten minutes later, her delusional mind unable or unwilling to accept that her message was going nowhere. “IVE BEEN GONE A LONG TIME COS I NEEDED MORE AIR. IVE BEEN SUCKING FOR AGES AND AGES AND I THINK I CAN STAY WITH YOU LONGER BEFORE I GET DIZZY AGAIN.”
“MUM,” she started again, pounding the keyboard fiercely, insisting her mother should listen, “WHEN I GET DIZZY ITS LIKE WHEN YOU BEND DOWN AND STAND UP TOO QUICKLY. KNOW WHAT I MEAN?” Without awaiting a response, though none was forthcoming, she changed topics and typed. “I DONT THINK HE RAPED ME. PAULINE ADAMS WAS RAPED BY HER BOYFRIEND AND SHE SAID IT HURT BAD. I COULDNT FEEL ANYTHING WHEN I WOKE UP SO I GUESS I’M O.K. BUT IT HURT WHEN HE TIED ME TO THE BED.” She closed her eyes thinking of the time she was sure she had escaped—the second day of her captivity, when he’d caught her—then continued typing.
“He tied me up because I nearly got out. I’d hid under the bed and kept very still.”
Roger, paying his usual morning visit before catching his train to the city, had unlatched the trap door in the cupboard under the stairs, scrambled down the ladder, and slipped his key in the lock with the anticipation of a birthday-boy. But the gift box was empty.
“HE DIDN’T SEE ME UNDER THE BED,” she carried on, caught up in the excitement of her tale, “SO HE WENT BACK UPSTAIRS. I CREPT OUT AND GOT RIGHT TO THE TOP OF THE LADDER, BUT HE SAW ME. HE WAS AT THE BACK DOOR AND HE SAW ME IN THE HALLWAY. I RAN TO THE FRONT DOOR AND GOT IT OPEN, THEN HE CAUGHT ME. I KICKED AND SCREAMED AGAIN BUT HE WAS TOO STRONG. THEN HE TIED ME TO THE BED AND LEFT ME FOR AGES.”
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys, deliberating whether or not she had the strength to tell her mother what else had occurred. Eventually, she made up her mind. “MUM. HE LOOKED AT ME. YOU KNOW—DOWN THERE,” she wrote finally, after erasing vagina and fanny, twice. “MY FEET WERE TIED TO THE BED AND HE PULLED MY KNICKERS DOWN AND JUST LOOKED AND LOOKED. THEN HE SAID SORRY AND PULLED THEM BACK UP. THEN HE STARTED CRYING AND IT MADE ME CRY AS WELL.”
Trudy suddenly found herself sinking and pumped herself up with a few sharp breaths. “MUM. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?” she typed, with a fervour that smacked of shouting. “I’LL HAVE TO GO AGAIN IN A MINUTE, BUT I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE YOU EVER SO MUCH. I REALLY MISS YOU. PLEASE COME AND GET ME SOON. GET ME BEFORE ROGER COMES BACK. I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU.”
She stopped, and slumped gracelessly onto the hard floor, landing heavily on her left arm. The damaged and tender shoulder muscles registered no pain, the nerves too starved of oxygen to care. Totally exhausted, she momentarily slipped into unconsciousness, but, just a few seconds later, an explosive bout of coughing wrenched her from oblivion and forced her to start another journey across the room. She had woken from a dream to a nightmare.
“ITS ME AGAIN,” she wrote nearly an hour later, thinking she’d taken only a few minutes. “SORRY I TOOK SO LONG.”
Her crawl to the door had been interrupted by several bouts of torpor; when her mind had refused stubbornly to register anything other than the whooshing of useless air as she hyperventilated on a fetid atmosphere almost devoid of oxygen.
“IM GOING TO TAKE A BREAK MUM. DO YOU MIND? IM SO TIRED,” she typed
laboriously as her mind and body continued to slow, while