Someplace, England
September 2017
Just like the night to play tricks
When I start awake from an uneasy slumber, I feel disoriented.
My eyes are open, but somehow, I can't see. It just remains pitch-black. I try to raise a hand to rub my eyes, but my arm won't move. There's panic rising within me so I take a deep breath, but the air tastes stale and stuffy, making me gasp.
As I sit there in the dark, unable to see or move and barely able to breathe, it slowly comes back to me.
I can't see because there's a hood pulled over my head. I can't breathe properly because of that very same hood. I can't move my hand because it's tied to a chair, as is most of my body. And I don't know where I am because I really don't know.
They came for me yesterday. At least – I think it was yesterday. I have no real idea how much time has passed. It feels like days, but it was likely just hours. Still, it's probably past midnight now and if it's past midnight that means it was yesterday when they took me.
The car holding me, a driver and two PPOs had just left Buckingham Palace after dinner when they suddenly surrounded us. Three dark cars appeared seemingly out of nowhere and prevented our car from moving. I didn't get a chance to ask before Hanson ordered me to duck and stay down. I did, meaning that I only caught glimpses of what happened then, but I heard gunshots and shouts and I saw someone – Beaverstock? – fall to the ground. Moments later, one the car doors was wrenched open and two masked men grabbed me.
I fought them, which might have been foolish, but I didn't even have time to think. With strangers pulling at my arms and none of my PPOs in sight, instinct kicked in and there was just one prevailing thought.
I have to stay in the car.
Clinging to the front seat, I tried to stay inside for as long as possible, entertaining some irrational hope that maybe, if only I held on long enough, help would suddenly materialise. It didn't, alas, and I couldn't hold on for very long before they pulled me from the car and immediately bundled me into the boot of another one. Before I even knew what had hit me, the lid was slammed shut, it grew dark around me and the car lurched forward.
It was then that the panic truly took hold.
At first, I was paralysed with fear as my brain grappled with what had just happened. The entire ordeal had taken maybe half a minute and within those thirty seconds, I went from sitting on the backseat of my car, idly scrolling through wedding dress sketches Pip emailed me today, to lying in the boot of another car, being driven to God knows where by God knows whom.
If that wasn't a time to panic I don't know what could possibly be.
For a while, I tried kicking and screaming, hoping against hope that maybe someone out there could hear me, but either no-one did or no-one cared. I stopped when I realised the futility of my attempt and when it dawned on me that maybe conserving my strength might be a good idea. Even not knowing why the masked men had taken me, I knew they weren't just taking me for a nice little ride around London.
This even more so because by the time the car finally came to a stop, we'd driven for so long that I wasn't even sure if we still were in London anymore. It being too dark to see my watch, I could only estimate the time but I was fairly confident the drive had taken almost an hour.
There were movements around the car after it stopped and I strained to listen to them while also preparing myself. If there was just one moment to get myself out of this mess –
But then when the car boot finally opened, I didn't get a chance to do anything. I barely caught a glimpse of what looked like an underground car park before the hood was wrenched over my head and pulled tight. Before that had even fully registered with me, I was dragged from the car boot not too gently and my hands were quickly tied behind me back.
Briefly, I considered resisting, but really, what would have been the point? With no idea where I was, unable to see or use my hands, and surrounded by armed criminals, I never stood a chance.
Sometimes, survival instincts just mean playing along because it's playing along that will keep you alive.
And playing along, I guess, is how I got here, tied to a chair but still breathing. From the car park, we walked for several minutes, me nearly stumbling over my own feet several times and having to be pushed and pulled by the men I still knew to surround me. We didn't go up any stairs, so I assumed we probably stayed underground.
No use screaming for help, then.
Once we reached this room, they forced me to sit down in the chair and tied my arms and legs to it. The ropes are too tight, cutting uncomfortably into my skin. My left foot is tingling weirdly and the way my arms are positioned makes sitting awkward and vaguely painful, but much as I pull, the ropes don't budge. The hood means I can't see anything, but I can still hear – or, I guess, not hear, which is really the same at this point.
Around me, there's nothing but deafening silence. A deafening, all-encompassing silence that is only broken by my own breathing and the little sounds I deliberately make when scraping my feet over the floor or scratching my fingernails over the metal of the chair. The sounds help in giving me something to focus on but they don't change the facts.
Wherever this underground room is and whatever the masked men plan to do with me, right now, there's no living soul anywhere close. I'm totally alone.
And just like that, the panic's back.
I feel light-headed and nauseous, not at all helped by the fact that the stuffy air makes breathing too hard. My throat is parched and my mouth fells dry and weirdly furry. My tongue is like a foreign object behind my teeth, too big and heavy, and when I move it slightly, I immediately start to gag.
Leaning forward as far as the ropes allow, I drop my head and let it hang down, hoping to combat the nausea. If I vomit into this hood, well… let's just say it would be better not to do it.
Bile burns in my throat and blood rushes in my ears, but I try to block it out, try to ignore all the sensations that feed the panic simmering below the surface. Closing my eyes under the hood, I concentrate on my breathing. The used, stale air doesn't provide much in the way of oxygen, but while I'm unable to calm my racing heart, I can at least force myself to breathe slowly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Ou –
Was that a sound?
Are those footsteps?
I jerk my head upwards, instinctively open my eyes, but of course, I don't see anything. I can hear though, I can hear just fine and the unsettling silence has indeed been replaced by faint sounds that appear to be footsteps coming closer.
I know I should probably be afraid.
I still have no idea what these men want from me and for all I do know, they've come to bring me somewhere worse or – or. But somehow, I can't bring myself to fear whoever is coming closer. After a night spent fighting panic and listening to the sound of my own ragged breathing, the thought of being close to another human – any human – is weirdly comforting.
After so many dark hours of feeling like the loneliest person in the world, any company is suddenly strangely welcome.
Thus, I listen with less apprehension than probably sensible as a key is turned in a lock and a heavy door is opened, scraping over the floor as it does so. The footsteps grow louder and it's almost as if I can feel the presence of another living being close to me.
Alas, whoever that living being is, they don't pay me much attention. Instead, they just move around the room, apparently picking up some things and setting them down again, from the sound of it. I turn my head in direction of the sounds, moving it as the person does, quite as if I was watching them even though I still can't see a thing. (Except – could that faint glow behind the hood be a flashlight? Or am I imagining things?)
"Hello."
I've spoken without making a conscious decision to do so. My voice sounds hoarse from disuse.
The footsteps stop.
"Hello," I repeat, more firmly this time.
Silence.
I take a deep breath.
"I really don't want to bother you," I state, making sure to sound my most polite. "It's just that I've been sitting here for a while and I'm a bit thirsty."
No response.
"Do you think you might be able to give me something to drink?" I ask cautiously.
For a long moment, nothing happens and I begin to resign myself to the fact that I won't get anything to wet my parched throat with, but then, without warning, the sounds start up again. Footsteps at first and then the high, clinking sound of something made from glass.
Hopefully, I raise my head, looking in the direction from where I heard the sounds.
"Is that something to drink?" I enquire. "That would be awfully kind of you."
The footsteps are back, moving at first and then stopping right next to me. A second or two later, someone unknots the ties holding the hood in place. My heart beats in the hope of getting rid of the hood finally, but instead, something is shoved beneath it and hits me in the chin. I turn my head downwards and recognise the object now touching my lips as a drinking straw.
Eagerly, I close my lips around it and start drinking. It's some weird, too sweet grape juice and the first taste of it makes me gag, but it's drinkable liquid and anyway, beggars can't be choosers, right? Especially not when they're blindfolded and tied to a chair.
With quick, hurried gulps, I drink as much of the disgusting grape juice as I can manage. The sticky sweetness of it coats the inside of my mouth, but it's better than the dryness of earlier, so I keep drinking. Far too quickly, the tell-tale slurping sounds made by the straw indicate that the bottle is empty, the juice supply drying up just a second later.
I push the straw from my mouth. "It's empty," I announce to the person holding the bottle.
Immediately the bottle is pulled away and the hands move to knot the hood back in place. (Can it be that it's a little less tight than before?) Next, there are footsteps again, moving away from me, and the presence of the other person by my side disappears, being replaced by shuffling, clinking sounds.
And just like that, the loneliness is back.
It's irrational, I know it is, but suddenly, the very thought of the person going away again and leaving me behind, in the dark and quiet, with just my increasingly panicked thoughts to keep me company, makes me feel sick. Instinctively, I try to reach for whoever is there, but my hand won't move, held in place by the ropes still binding it.
"Please," I blurt out instead.
The sounds stop.
"Please, can you not leave just yet?" I ask, not even caring how desperate it sounds.
No answer.
"It's just that… it's so lonely here on my own and I can't see or hear," I continue, increasingly frantic. "I know I'm in no position to ask for anything, but… but if you wouldn't mind terribly, would you consider staying just a bit longer? Just for a few minutes?"
Anything to stave off the loneliness!
Once again, there's no immediate reaction, but then, suddenly, the blackness around me is gone, being replaced by a faint grey-ish orange. At first, I can't place it, but then I realise that the person switched on a light and it's that light penetrating through the hood that I now see. I mean, technically speaking, I still can't see anything, but just the fact that it's not so dark anymore already helps, much more than it rightfully should.
"Thank you!" It comes out almost as a sob. "Thank you, thank you."
I don't expect a reply and there is none, but a moment later, I feel a light pat on my back, as if to acknowledge my words.
"You're very kind." I know I'm babbling and without making much sense, too (this is my kidnapper, after all!), but I'm just so relieved that it's not so dark anymore. "I don't want to be difficult, really, and I guess you have a reason for keeping me here, but it's a little bit challenging for me. The light helps though! Thank you for switching on the light."
There's another tap on my shoulder that I tell myself means 'you're welcome' or something of the sort. It makes me bold, at least a little bit, because whoever this person is, there's clearly something human in them that I can appeal to.
"I know you probably can't stay much longer, but if you come back, would you mind very much bringing me something to drink again?" I ask. "Something to eat, too, if it's not too much trouble? An apple would be good, or a banana." I hate bananas, but beggars, choosers.
Truth is, I also wouldn't mind being able to use a bathroom, but I don't know how to ask for it and anyway, I have a sinking feeling it would just involve a bucket in a corner and I'm not that desperate. (Yet.)
Another tap on my shoulder, indicating that the person has heard and understood me and, hopefully, also meaning to assure me that drink and food will come back when they do. I can but hope.
The footsteps move away from me again, towards where I think the door is and I squelch the feeling of panic rising within me.
"Please," I choke. "Please, leave the light on. Please."
A moment of hesitation before the footsteps pick back up again and the heavy door moves and falls shut. The key scrapes in the lock and the footsteps walk away, growing fainter as they do.
The orange glow remains.
It gives me something to hang on to, a hook to sink my eyes into that is more than the pitch blackness of earlier. By lightly tapping my ring against the metal of the chair, I create a sound I can focus on to stave off the silence and the loneliness. It's not much, but it's something, and even the stickiness of the residual grape juice still lingering in my mouth is weirdly welcome because it's something I can concentrate on other than the rhythm of my own breathing.
It's not much, but it helps and as I focus on the slow in and out, I feel myself drift off again after a while, my eyes sliding shut beneath the hood and my breathing slowing down and evening out. I've almost dozed off when –
Was that a sound?
Is the silent person coming back?
But –
But no.
That's not one person, that's –
It's a whole group of people.
There's shouting and running and –
Are those gunshots?
Could it be that someone has found me?
But if someone is here to get me, the masked men won't like that. And if those are gunshots, what are the chances of them coming here and me getting caught in the middle?
Quick!
What did Hanson say?
Minimise the potential area of impact.
Easy for him to say! He isn't the one tied to a bloody chair with a hood over his head!
Still, he has a point. I'm like a sitting duck here. I need to do something and the shots are only growing closer.
Experimentally, I move my body weight first to one side, then to the other. There's not much of an effect at first, but then, gradually, the chair starts tilting. I throw my weight to the left and the chair tilts, tilts, tilts, before it starts tipping and –
Ouch!
Ouch, bloody ouch!
The chair tipped and fell to the side, taking me with it, just as intended, but most of my body weight was taken by my left shoulder and for a moment, the pain of it takes my breath away. It's sharp and blinding and shoots from my shoulder right through the rest of my body. As it does, I struggle to concentrate on anything but the fact that it hurts, but then, there's the sound of the door being thrown open and the pain is all but forgotten.
I lie there, barely able to breathe as I try to determine whether the person opening is the door is friend or foe.
"Miss Blythe?" comes a loud voice. "We're with the specialist firearms unit SCO19 and we're here to take you out of here."
"Awfully kind of you," I remark, a nearly hysterical laugh bubbling up within me.
"Are you hurt?" the voice asks, just as several pairs of hands grab the chair and pull it upright.
"I'm okay," I reply. Briefly, I consider mentioning the shoulder, but it seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things and anyway, they're loosening the ties around my arms and someone is pulling the hood from my head and I can finally breathe again, so who cares about a sore shoulder?
Eagerly, I take in my surroundings, revelling in the fact that I can see again. The men surrounding me are also masked, wearing black helmets and heavy protective gear, and I nearly laugh at the irony of it, but these men are freeing me from the chair and then they're rushing me outside, away from the room and along a corridor and up several sets of stairs –
Only for us to emerge in the fancy new foyer of the newly-opened headquarters of Scotland Yard.
Seeing that, I automatically dig my heels in.
Really?
I was below Scotland Year all along?
"Miss?" asks one of the officers by my side.
I shake my head, unable to articulate my thoughts. I don't really care to articulate them either, because in that moment, my eyes fall on Ken walking towards me and just like that, any and all thoughts are forgotten.
Ripping my arm from the steadying hold of one of the officers, I rush towards Ken, nearly stumbling over my own feet. He's there to catch me though, wrapping me tightly in his arms and pulling me close towards him, not caring who's watching. I fling my right arm around his neck, bury my face against his chest and I try to hide from anyone and everyone around us.
For all I care, the world can go to hell.
Not that the world does me that favour.
"Sir?" asks a male voice. "With due respect, Sir, we're trying to keep this simulation as realistic as possible and that means we still have to debrief Miss Blythe before –"
"Due respect," Ken interrupts the man, calmly but sharply, "but if you think even for a moment that in the event of my wife being kidnapped for real, I wouldn't be breathing down your neck during the entire rescue mission or rush to her side the first possible second, you're out of your mind."
Well said.
I unbury my nose from where it was hidden in Ken's shirt to peer at the man standing beside him. He's wearing a suit and looks important. Could it be that he's the head of Scotland Yard? And if he is, do I care?
Ken, feeling my movement, looks down at me, his expression tender and – concerned. (Why is he concerned when this was a training simulation all along?) "Are you okay?" he asks.
I tilt my head vaguely. "I've head better nights."
"No kidding," he mutters.
"You knew they planned to do this yesterday?" I want to know. It's curious, not accusing, as I try to piece together what has happened.
Ken winces, then nods. "Yes. That's why I had you drive home alone last night. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but…"
He trails off, so I pick up the sentence. "But that would have defeated the purpose."
"Yes," he agrees, sighing.
Absent-mindedly, I pick at a piece of fluff sitting on his shoulder. "You know what's strange?" I muse. "Hanson told me the police were going to do something like this to make sure I was well-trained and I was very nearly sure it was just a training exercise the entire time and yet… it was like my body didn't believe it. My mind knew it wasn't real, but my body reacted as if it was."
"Survival instinct," replies Ken with a slight shrug. "It kicks in whether we want it or not. No matter how much our mind knows there's no actual danger, there's a primal part of us that won't listen and reacts as if the danger is real. There's some clever biological explanation for it, too, but I'll leave that for Di to explain."
"She'll know," I hum. Briefly, I wonder how Ken knows so much about survival instinct but then I realise that he's likely been through these mock kidnappings as well and anyway, he's fought in an actual war. He knows far more about survival than I ever will.
Putting my head against his shoulder, I let my gaze drift. The large clock on the wall tells me it's nearly five in the morning, meaning the entire exercise took nearly seven hours. (It felt longer than that!) The suited man next to Ken still looks slightly impatient but I can't really say I care much. I'm not ready to leave the safe space of Ken's arms yet, thank you very much!
Behind the man, however, I spot Hanson and that is enough to make me raise my head. It was Hanson, after all, who oversaw my training these past weeks and who prepared me for just the situation I lived through.
"How did I do?" I ask curiously.
"That's what we're meant to discuss in the debriefing," points out the suited man.
"And we will, just not now," snaps Ken, clearly irritated. "Before you talk to her at all, we'll need someone to look at her shoulder anyway. It took quite the hit when she upturned the chair."
"It's fine," I promise. "It barely hurts."
Ken looks down at me sceptically. "That's the adrenaline talking."
I shrug – and wince when I realise that yes, the left shoulder does hurt a little more than I'm willing to admit. "Either way, I want to know how I did. Hanson?"
Thus summoned, Hanson steps forward. He's smiling, which is not a bad sign, I guess.
"You did well, Ma'am," he tells me calmly. "There are some things we'll continue to work on, but overall, you did very well. I liked how you made the kidnapper give you water and turn on the light."
"Grape juice," I correct, grimacing. "And you told me to remind them that I'm human and to try and build a connection to them, so that's what I did."
"And you did it expertly," praises Hanson. "You also dealt well with the sensory deprivation."
Ken makes a displeased sound and mutters something that sounds vaguely like 'torture methods'. I know he knows it's a necessary part of my security training to prepare me, but it's apparent that he doesn't like the entire situation one bit.
I grimace once again, feeling myself agree with Ken. "The hood was… I didn't like the hood," I inform Hanson. "Or the darkness. Or the silence."
"No-one does," he acknowledges.
"I thought you'd add in an interrogation, too," I remark thoughtfully.
"We will do that next time," Suited Man replies.
Ken frowns and presses his lips together. I take a deep breath.
I hadn't realised there'd be a next time. I don't want there to be a next time!
"Not anytime soon," Hanson is quick to placate. "It's something you'll need to practice, but on balance, we think that if anyone does kidnap you, it'll likely be because of your position and not so much because of any information you might possess."
"So, I'm just a pretty face?" I joke weakly.
Hanson shrugs and smiles apologetically. Suited Man looks down at his watch impatiently.
Before he can get any ideas, Ken quickly decides, "We'll do the debriefing tomorrow." His voice doesn't allow any opposition. "For now, I'd like someone with medical training to look at Rilla's shoulder and then I'm taking her home. She's been through enough."
"I want breakfast," I tell him earnestly. "And a shower. Or a bath! Can I have a bath?"
Truth is, I feel filthy and I really want to brush my teeth.
Ken nods, raising a hand to briefly stroke my cheek. "Anything you want, but only after that shoulder of yours has been treated."
"It's just a little sore," I claim, trying to ignore the pain that's slowly and surely creeping from my shoulder down my arm as my adrenaline level continue drops. "Which reminds me –" I turn to look at Hanson, "did anyone get hurt in this whole exercise thingy? I think I saw Beaverstock fall down during the initial shooting."
Hanson grins. "He fell very convincingly, didn't he? But I promise that everyone was shooting blanks and that Beaverstock is fine, except for a slightly bruised tailbone."
"Good," I declare.
"He was already treated for it and we're getting you treated as well now," Ken informs me, gently but firmly.
I give a one-sided shrug. "Fine by me."
Not needing to be told twice, Ken immediately whisks me away to an emergency room on the second floor, where a kind doctor declares my shoulder to be bruised but otherwise intact and a kind nurse bandages it up expertly before supplying me with a handful of pills to combat the pain and aid with sleeping, as directed by the kind doctor. Ken doesn't leave my side the entire time and when we're done, he glares away the suited man who still hasn't given up on that debrief.
I'm thankful for it, too, because it takes increasingly more strength to cling to my unconcerned, cheerful demeanour. I don't want all these people to know how much a mere training exercise got to me, but as excitement and adrenaline are replaced with weariness and exhaustion, I can feel that I'm about to crash.
Ken, I think, can sense it, too, because he insists on taking me home right after my shoulder is taken care of. We're silent on the entire car ride to KP, but he keeps an arm wrapped tightly around my waist and I snuggle into his side, his presence having its usual calming effect on my beating heart.
"Do you have to be anywhere today?" I ask tentatively when he closes the door of Wren House behind me.
"Of course not," he reassures me, reaching out a hand to stroke my hair. "Today, I'm not leaving your side unless you order me to."
"I won't," I promise as I take his hand to press a kiss to it.
He smiles. "Would you like breakfast or a bath first?"
"First, I need to brush teeth," I decide. "But then, I wouldn't mind that bath."
"Got it," he replies and interlocks our hands. Together, we walk upstairs to the bathroom where I sit on the closed toilet seat and brush my teeth while Ken busies himself running a bath for me.
"We'll need to make sure to keep the bandage dry," he states, frowning. "Maybe I should wrap a plastic bag around it?"
Leaning over the sink, I spit out the toothpaste. "I think I'll manage." Putting the toothbrush aside, I watch him as he picks up every last bottle from the cabinet by the tub and pours part of its contents into the steaming water. There's already a hill of bubbles floating on the surface and it's threatening to turn into a mountain.
"They're not meant to be mixed," I inform him, smiling slightly.
Ken shrugs. "Today, you've earned all the bubbles you could possibly wish for."
It's a ridiculous statement, but it's also sweet and caring and thoughtful and somehow, it's that very statement that set me off. I did so well to cling on to my show of calmness so far, but for whatever reason, it's that bubble bath that tips me over the edge. All the tension and exhaustion and, yes, fear of the night boil up over the surface as I sink down on the floor and start to weep.
Ken is by my side in an instant. Without needing to ask anything, he wraps his arms around me and rocks me lightly back and forth, all the while muttering reassuringly and stroking my hair to calm me. I don't know how long we sit there on the bathroom floor, me crying and him comforting me, but he doesn't let go of me until, minutes or maybe hours later, I finally feel safe again.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966).
To DogMonday:
Lucy is a great friend, isn't she? She's quietly in the background of the whirlwind that is Rilla's life, but she always reliably grounds her and provides both normalcy and good sense. She's bossy, but I see nothing wrong with being bossy, especially because she generally tends to be right. She's a very caring person and only wants what's best for her friends, which Rilla is well aware of. Lucy is one of the few people who Rilla actively defers to without questioning it, because she, too, knows that whatever Lucy says usually holds water.
Actually, Pip is half-British (which is how she was allowed to come work and live in England pretty easily), so with her British ancestry and with her business based in London, the press can't complain about her being part-American too much. She's not working on her own either, so it's not just her and her sewing machine trying to magic a royal wedding dress into being in only a few weeks ;). She has a team that works for/with her and of course the palace will provide whatever resources necessary. For example, the Royal School of Needlework did the lace for Kate's wedding dress and I imagine similar support will be provided to help Pip with Rilla's wedding dress, too.
You're spot-on about the bridesmaids! There are indeed seven of them and you correctly identified six already. Shall we see if you can guess the seventh one if I give you a hint? Think of which other girl Rilla built a strong relationship with in this story and think out of the family box. Does anyone come to mind? =)
It's really interesting to me how culture and experience can influence perception of something as supposedly simple as the Maltese Cross. Here, it's used by the Order of St John (Protestant) and the Maltese Order (Catholic), both of which are nominally Christian but are really among the premier aid organisations in the country providing help and support to all people, especially in a medical and social sense. They run care homes, hospices and daycare centres, they operate ambulances, provide first aid teams and train nurses and first responders. It's a very hands-on approach that is not egalitarian and not openly religious either. Therefore, their work fits with my idea of Gilbert very well, but I can see that that's my experience based on how things are here in Germany, which doesn't appear to translate in an international sense.
I actually considered the the rod of Asclepius as a symbol for Gilbert, but found it needlessly fussy, which is why I went with the simpler Maltese Cross. I don't want people to be confused about it though, so I borrowed your idea of having a guitar pendant for him. It's not work-related, but music is his other passion, so it works just as well. Thanks for suggesting it! And since we're talking about the Blythes... look out for the arrival of some of them in the next chapter!