In the Lion's Den

Trapped

Sometime somewhere in a cellar - Simon

The first thing Simon noticed, when he woke up in the darkness of grandfather's cellar, was the headache. It felt as though his head was going to explode. What had he done this time to be trapped down here? Had he hurt his head, fallen from a tree? His body felt as though he could have fallen from a tree. He did not remember, but that was nothing to be worried about, he rarely ever remembered or understood why grandfather locked him up down here. He would have done something wrong, he was sure about it.

What was to be worried about was the quality of the muffled sounds of footsteps and movement coming from the kitchen above him. That sounded like breakfast time. His stomach rumbled. It would be long hours before grandfather would come to release him and then directly send him to his room to study without even considering a meal.

Simon reached for the book he had hidden under the cot for these circumstances. There was only the faintest shimmer of daylight shining through a crack in the wall, but it would be enough, and if not, he still had the box of matches he always kept in his trousers, knowing a detention could come up any time for anything. Since he had found a way to read down here, the detention was not as daunting anymore as it had been before. Before, when he was younger, he'd feel terribly alone and frightened, certain that this time Grandfather would keep the promise to forget him down here. But now, as he had grown older, that fright would just last a short time. He would simply read, imagine being in another world with those characters who became his friends and mentors, where he would go on real adventures and be a hero people loved and admired. And when he didn't read, he'd plot his escape. The book was where he had left it, but when he took it out, it was uncharacteristically dusty and the pages seemed to have grown yellow. Had it not been in perfect shape, almost new, when he last left it there? Something was off. The cot felt much smaller than it used to be, and when he stood up from it, he almost banged his head into the ceiling. He reached for his matches, now wanting to see better. But in the pockets of his trousers there were no matches. Just some coins, his army identification papers, and the keys of his motorcar. He was not supposed to have army identification papers, nor a motorcar, when he was just a thirteen-year old boy dreaming of running away to the army.

And with that thought, reality came rushing in on him. He was no thirteen-year old boy. He was aged 33, Sergeant Major of the Somerset Regiment of the British Army and he certainly was not supposed to be locked up in the cellar of Sinclair Manor. He was supposed to be in London, courting Bess, apologising for the rough times they'd had. He had been incautious, too happy, pushing any thought about the anger of the old man away for later. It had all been too easy, he had forgotten his vigilance and had been surprised by the attack, not even being able to put in a fight. Damn, Bess. She would be furious. Either that or plunging herself head over heels in a far too dangerous rescue quest. Probably both. He had to get out of here, before she got anywhere near a clue of where he was.

But when he tried his force on the grid that separated him from freedom, it was as sturdy and unmoving as it had been when he was thirteen and had been less than half as strong as he was now. Anger and frustration rolled through him like an army he was not able to control, fruitlessly punching the grid until his hands started bleeding. Damn, he had always been able to control himself, concentrate on the facts, wait for the right moment and then act with precision. It was what had kept him alive as a soldier on special missions behind enemy lines. He had taken pride in it. But it had taken nothing more than the old man entering into his life again to revoke the demons of anger that he thought he had long left behind.

Slowly his head was getting clearer. The pain stayed though. "Concentrate" he told himself "Calm down. Guard your forces. The moment to act will come." He repeated it over and over in his mind. The anger subsided. But now the self-scolding started. What a fool had he been to believe he could win his freedom with a simple lawsuit, that for once the old man would play fair. Know your enemy. He had successfully suppressed all his knowledge of this particular enemy, as it had been too painful to remember - and that had just caused more pain.