Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

April 2015

The Telephone Cold Call - Gerry Miller

The phone seemed to ring for ever through the dark oppressing silence of the cellar. Greta knew that no one was going to pick up. No one was in, she had heard the car leave. She swore to herself and started muttering incoherently. 'What on earth have I become, I'm a weak fecking weak' and so the croaky ranting carried on. At last the tirade stopped, Greta's brain was starting to function and she was beginning to assess her situation. No one would miss her, new to this country and hitching a lift with the man in the smart car, she had not contacted her friends. It was all going to be such a surprise and boy was it, but only for her.

Greta could barely move, every part of her body ached, but at least her determination was growing. There was nothing more he could do to her, just more of the same until she was dead. But now at last she could feel her anger starting to rise. A few minutes later and she realised her mind had wandered again.She was certainly not going to go quietly into the good night; she frightened herself she could have missed the car's return.

Pushing herself back against the cellar wall she managed to get herself upright, pain shot throughout her body, 'So what,' she told herself, being placid had not worked. Time for fight or flight nothing could be more painful than staying here. The pitch darkness was her friend. At least he had tied her hands in front and she inched herself slowly around the wall, working her body up and down feeling for anything that could help her. The hobbles round her ankles cut in, the rope was old and moving hairs from it irritated the cuts, opening wounds again. After each visit her tormentor had left her with the faint flicker of a lighted candle stub, just out of her reach. Each night she had managed to blow it out, she could not bear to see herself. The last visit had been different and she had used the candle's glimmer to look around. All she needed to do was to find those old rusty tools she had glimpsed. Greta's body jerked in pain as she came round again. Her face was pressed cold against the floor and her body stiff; she had passed out again. Fear drove her voice was hoarse and fierce ranting and raving, she could have missed the sound of the car. But at last her resolve was surfacing. Her dad had always told her, 'Don't let the Bustards grind you down.' He was so funny they both knew he meant bastards but he never swore. 'Right Dad I'm coming,' she screamed at herself and with a final surge of pain the tools were reached. Amongst them was a scythe, old and rusty. Adding a few more cuts and scrapes she was free of the ropes. The phone could be heard again its ring echoing through the stillness, she had not missed the car, no one was in.

Greta carried on round the walls; eyes opened or closed it made no difference. She had caught her hip on what felt a small metal bolt about four feet up the wall and she needed to find it again. The old water filled tin can he had left her she finished and sadly wasted some of it on her wounds. But share and share alike; some for the body and some for the soul. Her spirits were rising and now at least she was starting to have some sense of urgency, time had no meaning for her, but she did know it must be running out. As Greta's blood started to flow more freely she became more flexible and moved more quickly, at last the bolt was found. She could only hope this was not a store cupboard but the door to the outside for coal deliveries. The floor was so filthy that in daylight it would have been hard to discern if there had been coal. That bloody phone was ringing again, she held her breath and waited – finally it stopped. Back to the old tools and with odd and ends in her hands she hammered at the bolt and suddenly as Greta felt her strength was giving out, she knew it would open. Standing to one side she caught her breath and then pulled the door swung open and a load of coal tumbled into the cellar, and sobs racked her body. Greta's courage started to fail as she now needed to open her eyes and look up the shaft, would there be even a glimmer of daylight?

She froze as she heard the phone ringing again, but this time it was answered. Greta had missed the sound of the car's return. She could faintly hear her tormentor's voice shouting, 'I have told you people fifty million times before, I do not speak to any cold callers,' and then silence. She wet herself with fear as she started to scramble up the shaft. The coal went downwards as she went upwards; at last the hole behind her was all filled in. Greta lay quiet and finally opened her eyes.