The room is small and dimly lit.
She can’t rightly say how long she has been in it; only a couple of days, as far as she could tell. It is not a well-appointed room, although the mattress is surprisingly comfortable. There remains little of interest in the half dozen magazines and old newspapers lying in the corner. She has read them all; some of them twice. The tiny window, with one pane in it, looks out over open fields and a distant stand of trees. She takes comfort in her ability to stare out at the beauty of it. She feels it is, in some way, compensation for her predicament.
She sits on the upturned milk crate with a cushion, thinking about how nice it would be to visit her parents, when she gets out. She has no doubt that she will be set free in due course. She knows this because of the occasional visits she receives and the brief chats that go with them. Albeit that such occurrences give no clue as to the identity of her abductor; all such conversations being carried out with the room’s only door shut fast between them.
Her captor is a woman; a strange, middle-aged, single person, but she would have to say not at all unpleasant, as people go. It transpires that she has been living on her own for several years. She is a writer. Nothing of note, she says. To date her career has seen a few short articles published in a locally produced gardening magazine, but the lady wants to write a book. A crime novel no less. It is for this reason, along with her fastidious desire for authenticity that she carried out the kidnapping in the first place. She needed to know whether such an activity was truly feasible. It was explained in a rather off-hand manner that, when the time came, the detainee would be given the same harmless sleeping potion that she was offered when she had accepted the lift.
On the cold night in question, she had been hitchhiking later in the day than intended. She was on the first of a two week walking holiday. She was tired of the regular work breaks she took and wanted something different. By the time the friendly vehicle came along it was completely dark. There was an icy wind blowing and she was still some way from the village she was heading for. A place where she had booked a bed for the night.
As the driver of the vehicle pulled up she could just make out several boxes piled up on the front seat. She could see virtually nothing of the lady driver, who was apologetic about only offering her the back seat. She said she was heading for the village herself. The hitchhiker accepted gladly, and was most grateful when the driver handed back a thermos of hot coffee.
As for how long she remained unconscious, how long the drive had taken or how far they travelled on the night, she had no idea. Although, when she eventually woke it was broad daylight outside. Now, she felt quite sure, it was only a question of time. Every time the little dog-flap at the bottom of the door was unbolted to slide in a tray of food and drink, as meagre as it was, the occupier of the cell actually hoped the drink would herald her escape. With that in mind, she never hesitated in quaffing it down quickly. This would be followed by a period of sitting on the crate, waiting.
She does this now and smiles as a warm sleepiness moves over her.
It is night-time again when she wakes to find herself sitting, propped up on the back wall of the public house she was originally heading for.
She got up, went inside, apologised for showing up late and got a bed for the night. In her room, she didn’t have to think for very long before coming to the decision that she’d keep the events of the last few days to herself. After all, she had wanted something different and that’s what she got.
However, she couldn’t help wondering whether there were any murders in the ladies book!