The Danger

'Pony trekking,' I said.

'What?'

'Riding over hills on ponies. Very popular in some parts of Britain.'

'Oh,' he said without enthusiasm. 'Anyway, there were grooms once and a riding instructor, but now they have a tennis pro instead… and he didn't know any of the kidnappers in our pictures.'-

'It's a big hotel, then?' I said.

'Yes, quite. People go there in the summer, it is cooler than on the plains or on the coast. Just now there are thirty-eight on the staff besides the manager, and there are rooms for a hundred guests. Also a restaurant with views of the mountains.'

'Expensive?' I suggested.

'Not for the poor,' he said. 'But also not for princes. For people who have money, but not for the jet-set. A few of the guests live there always… old people, mostly.' He sighed. 'I asked a great many questions, as you see. No one at all, however Song they had lived there, or been employed there, showed any interest in our pictures.'

We talked it over for a while longer but without reaching any conclusion except that he would try 'Vistaclara' on the talkative kidnapper the next day: and on that next day, Sunday, I drove down again to Lambourn.

Alessia had by that time been free for nearly two weeks and had progressed to pink varnish on her nails, A lifting of the spirits, I thought.

'Did you buy the varnish?' I asked.

'No… Popsy did.'

'Have you been shopping yet on your own?'

She shook her head. I made no comment, but she said, "I suppose you think I ought to.'

'No. Just wondered.'

'Don't press me.'

'No.'

'You're as bad as Popsy.' She was looking at me almost with antagonism, something wholly new.

'I thought the varnish looked pretty,' I said equably.

She turned her head away with a frown, and I drank the coffee Popsy had poured before she'd walked out round her yard.

'Did Popsy ask you to come?' Alessia said sharply.

'She asked me to lunch, yes.'

'Did she complain that I've been acting like a cow?'

'No,' I said. 'Have you?'

'I don't know. I expect so. All I know is that I want to scream. To throw things. To hit someone.' She spoke indeed as if a head of steam was being held in by slightly precarious will-power.

'I'll drive you up to the Downs.'

'Why?'

'To scream. Kick the tyres. So on.'

She stood up restlessly, walked aimlessly round the kitchen and then went out of the door. I followed in a moment and found her standing halfway to the Land Rover, irresolute.

'Go on, then,' I said, 'Get in.' I made a questioning gesture to where Popsy stood, pointing to the Land Rover, and from the distance collected a nod.

The keys were in the ignition. I sat in the driver's seat and waited, and Alessia presently climbed in beside me.

'This is stupid,' she said.

I shook my head, started the engine, and drove the way we'd gone three days earlier, up to the silence and the wide sky and the calling birds.

When I braked to a stop and switched off, Alessia said defensively, 'Now what? I can't just… scream.'

'If you care to walk off along there on your own and see if you want to, I'll wait here.'

Without looking at me directly she did exactly as I'd said, sliding down from the Land Rover and walking away. Her narrow figure diminished in the distance but stayed in sight, and after a fair while she came slowly back. She stopped with dry eyes at the open window beside me and said calmly, 'I can't scream. It's pointless.'

I got out of the Land Rover and stood on the grass near her. I said, 'What is it about riding in the string which makes you feel trapped?'

'Did Popsy say that?'

'No, she just said you didn't want to.'

She leaned against the front wing of the Land Rover, not looking at me.

'It's nonsense,' she said. 'I don't know why. On Friday I got dressed to go. I wanted to go… but I felt all churned up. Breathless. Worse than before my first big race… but the same sort of feeling. I went downstairs, and it got much worse. Stifling. So I told Popsy I had a headache… which was nearly true… and yesterday it was just the same. I didn't even go downstairs… I felt so wretched, but I just couldn't…'

I pondered, then said, 'Start from getting up. Think of riding clothes. Think of the horses. Think of riding through the streets. Think of everything separately, one by one, and then say at what thought you begin to feel… churned up.' She looked at me dubiously, but blinked a few times as she went through the process and then shook her head. 'I don't feel churned now. I don't know what it is… I've thought of everything. It's the boys.' The last three words came out as if impelled; as if unpremeditated and from the depths. "The boys?' 'The lads.' 'What about them?' Their eyes.' The same erupting force. 'If you rode at the back they wouldn't see you,' I said 'I'd think of their eyes.'

I glanced at her very troubled face. She was taking me out of my depth, I thought. She needed professional help, not my amateur common sense. 'Why their eyes?' I said.

'Eyes…' She spoke loudly, as if the words themselves demanded violence. 'They watched me. I knew they did. When I was asleep. They came in and watched.'

She turned suddenly towards the Land Rover and did actually kick the tyre.

They came in. I know they did. I hate… I hate… I can't bear… their eyes.'

I stretched out, put my arms round her and pulled her against my chest. 'Alessia… Alessia… It doesn't matter What if they did?'

'I feel… filthy… dirty.'

'A kind of rape?' I said.

'Yes.'

'But not…?'

She shook her head silently and conclusively.

'How do you know they came in?' I said.

The zip,' she said. 'I told you I knew every stitch of the tent… I knew how many teeth in the zip. And some days, it would open higher than others. They undid the zip… and came in… and fastened it at a different level… six or seven teeth higher, ten lower… I dreaded it.'

I stood holding her, not knowing what to say.

'I try not to care,' she said. 'But I dream…' She stopped for a while, then said, 'I dream about eyes.'

I rubbed one of my hands over her back, trying to comfort. 'Tell me what else,' I said. 'What else is unbearable?'

She stood quiet for so long with her nose against my chest that I thought there might be nothing, but finally, with a hard sort of coldness, she said, 'I wanted him to like me. I wanted to please him. I told Papa and Pucinelli that his voice was cold… but that was… at the beginning. When he came each time with the microphone, to make the tapes, I was… ingratiating.' She paused. 'I… loathe… myself. I am… hateful… and dreadfully… unbearably… ashamed.'

She stopped talking and simply stood there, and after a while I said, 'Very often people who are kidnapped grow to like their kidnappers. It isn't even unusual. It's as if a normal human being can't live without some sort of friendly contact. In ordinary criminal prisons, the prisoners and warders grow into definitely friendly relationships. When a lot of hostages are taken, some of them always make friends with one or more of the terrorists holding them. Hostages sometimes beg the police who are rescuing them not to harm their kidnappers. You mustn't, you shouldn't, blame yourself for trying to make the man with the microphone like you. It's normal. Usual. And… how did he respond?

She swallowed. 'He called me… dear girl.'

'Dear girl,' I said myself, meaning it. 'Don't feel guilty. You are normal. Everyone tries to befriend their kidnappers to some extent, and it's better that they should.'

'Why?' The word was muffled, but passionate.

'Because antagonism begets antagonism. A kidnapped person who can make the kidnappers like her is much safer. They'll be less likely to harm her… and more careful, for her own sake, not to let her see their faces. They wouldn't want to kill someone they'd grown to like.'