The Collector by John Fowles

down in the cellar. I’m like that, I act on impulse sometimes, taking risks others wouldn’t.
    I’ll see, I said. I’d have to make arrangements.
    “If I gave you my word, I wouldn’t break it.”
    I’m sure, I said.
    So that was that.
    It seemed to clear the air, so to speak. I respected her and she respected me more afterwards. The first thing she did was write out a list of things she wanted. I had to find an art-shop in Lewes and buy special paper and all sorts of pencils and things: sepia and Chinese ink and brushes, special hair and sizes and makes. Then there were things from the chemist: smell-removers and so on. It was a danger getting ladies’ things I couldn’t want for myself, but I took the risk. Then she wrote down food to buy, she had to have fresh coffee, and a lot of fruit and vegetables and greens—she was very particular about that. Anyway after she used to write down almost every day what we had to buy, she used to tell me how to cook it too, it was just like having a wife, an invalid one you had to do shopping for. I was careful in Lewes, I never went to the same shop twice running so that they wouldn’t think I was buying a lot for one person. Somehow I always thought people could tell I lived on my own.
    That first day I bought a gramophone too. Only a small one, but I must say she looked very pleased, I didn’t want her to know I didn’t know anything about music but I saw a record with some orchestra music by Mozart so I bought that. It was a good buy, she liked it and so me for buying it. One day much later when we were hearing it, she was crying. I mean, her eyes were wet. After, she said he was dying when he wrote it and he knew he was dying. It just sounded like all the rest to me but of course she was musical.
     
     
    Well, the next day she brought up the business about having a bath and fresh air again. I didn’t know what to do; I went up to the bathroom to think about it without promising anything. The bathroom window was over the porch round the cellar door. Out the back, which was safer. In the end I got up some wood and boarded across the frame, three-inch screws, so she couldn’t signal with the light or climb out. Not that there was anyone likely to be out the back late at night.
    That took care of the bathroom.
    What I did next was I pretended she was with me and walked up from below to see where the danger spots would be. The downstairs rooms had wooden inside shutters, it was easy to draw them across and lock them (later I got padlocks) so she couldn’t attract attention through a window and no snoopers could be looking in and seeing things. In the kitchen I made sure all knives etcetera were well out of harm’s way. I thought of everything she could do to try and escape and in the end I felt it was safe.
    Well, after supper she was on to me again about the bath and I let her begin to go sulky again and then I said, all right, I will take the risk, but if you break your promise, you stay here.
    “I never break promises.”
    Will you give me your parole of honour?
    “I give you my word of honour that I shall not try to escape.”
    Or signal.
    “Or signal.”
    I’m going to tie you up.
    “But that’s insulting.”
    I wouldn’t blame you if you broke your word, I said.
    “But I…” she didn’t finish, she just shrugged and turned and held her hands behind her. I had a scarf ready to take the pressure of the cord, I did it real tight but not so as to hurt, then I was going to gag her, but first she had me collect up the wash-things she needed and (I was very glad to see) she had chosen some of the clothes I had bought.
    I carried her things and went first, up the steps in the outer cellar and she waited till I unlocked the door and came up when I ordered, having first listened to make sure no one was about.
    It was very dark of course, but clear, you could see some stars. I took her arm tight and let her stand there for five minutes. I could hear her breathing