Fluffy bunnies? I can write about them. Or can I?

Four or five years ago I decided to write a gentler book. A book my mother could describe to a friend without feeling shame and disgrace. I retained Donna, plucky little Donna from my first two books, reasoning that she too deserved a break from murder and mayhem.

I set the book in rural Andalusia, where I lived at the time, drawing inspiration from the surroundings. It’s a novel containing far less violence, virtually no ‘street language’ and thereby appealing to a far wider audience. As with most of my carefully laid plans, the novel was a failure. Virtually everyone who read it begged for a return to my ‘nasty’ writing style.

My good friend Kay, far away in Australia at present, was particularly scathing. ‘Write what you know,’ she said, ‘Anyone can write a mystery in the Spanish sunshine. Give me something to scare me stiff.’

So that was that. My fluffy bunny period. Short-lived and unlamented. Here’s a couple of sections, see what you’re missing.

 

 

The finca’s setting was as close to perfection as Donna could imagine. Perched high up on a ridge with mountains rising steeply at the back, the house faced south with the blue Mediterranean sparkling away towards a horizon that ended at the Rif Mountains. A view that stretched all the way to Africa; a different continent.

The land in front of the finca sloped down in steep terraces of grape vines; olive and almond trees forming a veritable paradise for butterflies and exotic birds. As Donna rounded the corner of the house, she stood transfixed at the sight of a matched pair of eagles riding the thermals, hovering motionless against a perfect blue sky, every detail of their plumage clearly visible, her vantage point more or less level with the magnificent birds as their keen eyes scanned everything that moved far down on the valley floor a thousand metres or so below their widely spread wings.

Donna moved on as the eagles wheeled away and picked her way carefully through the scrubland. A thick bank of prickly pear formed a formidable barrier to an approach from the rear and any attempt to approach from that direction past their fierce spines would require the utmost care. The mule-house, fifty metres distant from the main finca, was similarly constructed to the parent house, apart from the absence of windows in the whitewashed metre thick walls and had clearly been built with the single purpose of keeping the fierce heat at bay. The sagging roof with its lichen covered terracotta roof tiles was home to any number of lizards and other tiny creatures and a few hardy sprigs of some plant or other, pushing defiantly towards the sun from the depths of the numerous gaps between the tiles.

The wooden door was thick oak; studded and massive enough to withstand a battering ram, but gaping partly open to reveal a cool dark interior.

To the right, the land dropped steeply into the black depths of a narrow ravine, rough weather-beaten stones and straggly scrub obscuring any view to the bottom unless one was prepared to lie prone in the dust and peer over the edge. Donna decided she could live without knowing whether the gash in the earth was a bottomless pit, and retraced her steps away from the crumbling rim with great care.

The lintel above the mule-house door was split and sagging dangerously and there were deep fissures in the cracked stone pillars. As Donna approached, she heard a faint creak, then started in alarm as a small green lizard darted from its place of concealment and scuttled into the shadow of the overhanging tiles. No doubt, the lizard was more frightened of Donna than Donna was of the lizard, but the difference was only marginal.

Was there someone there? In the mule-house, perhaps? The back of her neck tingling Donna knew she must investigate, if only to resolve her own foolishness.

Wincing at her own timidity, Donna squeezed through the narrow entrance. Inside, the darkness was absolute. Donna slipped to one side of the door frame, reasoning that if there was anyone there they would see her silhouetted against the light and stood still, holding her breath. After thirty seconds, Donna’s night vision had improved sufficiently that she could see her hand clearly. If she held it an inch from her face! The only sound she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

Nothing else.

The room was empty.

She’d half turned to leave, feeling utterly foolish, when she heard it. Deep in the darkness and so faint as to be almost inaudible, the unmistakable sound of an intake of breath. Donna froze, adrenalin flooding her nervous system as if someone had turned on a tap. Then, she heard the same sound again, and this time saw the faintest hint of movement on the far wall.

It was enough. Without thinking, Donna lurched forward, determined to take the initiative, and on the second stride, smacked her head into a heavy wooden beam. She knew it was wooden by the sound of the dull thud as skull met beam. Her senses swam and she sat down hard on the stony floor, hands cradling her head. The pain was intense, but Donna also felt utterly foolish, accepting for the first time that discretion may have been a wiser course of action. Head swimming, she tried to rise, but her body weight had apparently quadrupled in the last few moments. She felt defenceless and vulnerable sitting on the floor, but the pain was too intense to consider doing anything else.

“Who’s there?” She called out, her voice like a railway station announcer on a bad day, metallic and unreal. No reply came, but Donna wasn’t really expecting an answer. She tried again to get up, but was overcome with nausea and vertigo, remaining stuck on one knee like a sprinter about to spring from starting blocks. Not very appropriate in the circumstances. The likelihood of her springing anywhere was nil.

Every cell in her body complained. Loudly. Donna feared she may have done herself some damage, concussion perhaps, or something even more serious. With a massive effort of will she rose slowly to her feet, avoiding any sudden movement. The darkness heightened the feelings of disorientation Donna was feeling, and she knew she was swaying from side to side, unable to gain control of her balance in the absence of any visible reference points.

As Donna’s head began to clear, the forgotten threat of the intruder provoked a fresh surge of alarm. Was there anyone there or had she imagined the whole thing? Even if there had been anyone hiding in the darkness, they would have had ample opportunity to escape while she’d been staggering around like a wasted clubber after an all-night party.

Opening her eyes as wide as possible, Donna strained to see into the gloom, wishing she’d had the sense to go and fetch a torch before venturing into these unfamiliar surroundings. She’d just about convinced herself that she was making a total fool of herself, standing in the dark with a lump the size of a duck egg swelling on her forehead, when all her former suspicions were vindicated. At the very edge of her vision Donna saw a shape move towards her, nothing more than the suggestion of a figure, then felt an intense pain on the side of her face that caused her to cry out. Not a punch, no more than a heavy slap, but in Donna’s weakened state, sufficient to fell her instantly, sending her crashing to the ground once again.

Donna lay prone, unable to move a muscle, and felt rather than saw a vague shape materialise from the shadows. A disembodied hand reached out and touched her on the neck, as gently as the tender caress of a lover. The hand moved downwards until it touched and then encompassed Donna’s right breast.  Her head was still spinning, and her limbs were heavy, or the sense of outrage would have given her the strength to spring to her feet. Donna uttered a small groan of protest and the hand withdrew, gently scraping her nipple with fingertips softer than a summer breeze.

 

 

This next segment describes the following day.

 

 

As Donna set back towards the house, she heard a faint plaintive cry.  The missing kitten! She followed the sound until she reached the lip of the narrow ravine. Lying full length on the dusty ground, Donna craned her head over the edge but could see only a forest of climbing weeds. She called out and heard an answering cry from the depths. Donna ran back to the finca and removed the nylon clothes line from the front of the terrace. Tugging on it to satisfy herself that it would bear her weight, she dashed back to the ravine.

“I’m coming, little one,” Donna called out, feeling slightly foolish, and was rewarded by a faint mewing sound from deep below her feet. She tied one end of the rope to the door frame of the mule-house and the other around her waist.

Donna paused for a moment on the edge of the ravine, aware that what she was doing was foolish and that the sensible thing to do would be to wait for Peg to return before she went off  on a potholing expedition. Especially considering her recent bang on the head.

Her mind was made up by a further desperate cry from below, and she took the first step over the edge and into the darkness. On the rim, the hard-packed earth was bare and un-yielding, but lower down, where it was cooler, dense vegetation flourished. Slender runnels seeking light and warmth struggled up the sides of the ravine from the far dark depths. Dive bombed by insects, legs scratched and itching furiously, the very last place on earth Donna wanted to go was down into that dark pit. Then she heard a plaintive mewing from deep in the jungle and her mind was made up. Like it or not, she had to rescue that kitten.

In the increasing darkness, Donna felt a sudden chill not entirely explained by the withdrawal of the sun’s warmth. Goosebumps rose on her arms, but it was a sense of unease she was feeling rather than any change in temperature. Pulling on a metaphorical cloak of courage, she pressed on.

Thorns snagged her clothing and ravished exposed skin, but she was a girl on a mission. Something brushed her thigh and Donna gave out an involuntary shriek of alarm, prompting a blush of shame, and she stopped for a moment to get her breath back.

The light was surprisingly far above and the itching from her arms and legs was maddening. Donna tried to tell herself that if she’d have known the bloody ravine was this deep she’d have never attempted to climb down, but knew that wasn’t true and settled for cursing the wretched kitten for being so damned inconsiderate as to fall down this dark pit. Knowing full well that once she got hold of the poor little creature she’d kiss and hug it all the way back up to safety.

The creeping plants rising from the depths were suffocating and flies swarmed around, drinking her sweat and driving her to distraction. Ten feet down, it was almost dark. Donna could only feel for hand and footholds, calling out words of reassurance to the kitten with every step.

Donna reached the bottom at last, in complete darkness, but could feel warm fur against her calf. With great difficulty in the narrow confined space, she managed to reach down until her fingers touched the kitten’s upturned face. She rummaged around and freed its leg from the roots of some plant and pulled it up to where it could nestle on her shoulder, purring frantically and licking her neck with its sandpaper tongue.

The flies seemed worse than ever, settling around her head in a dense swarm, and Donna was swatting around frantically as she reached up to pull at the foliage that was blocking out the light prior to climbing out again. As Donna raised her arm, her foot slid off its precarious perch. With some of the leaves removed she could see slightly better and glanced down to look for a more reliable foothold.

What Donna saw made her scream out in terror. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and kept them closed for what seemed an age. When Donna opened them again, nothing had changed. It was not a dream. The nightmare was all too real. The naked woman on whose thigh Donna was standing was still there. Donna didn’t need to look at her staring eyes to be aware that she was very dead indeed.