Transgressions

by Sarah Dunant

  The second her hands were immobilized he had the twine out of his pocket and was wrapping it around one of her wrists. As he bound one hand she pummeled him with the other, but the rope had been prepared in advance and with the noose over her hand he had only to pull to tighten it savagely. The skin burn caused her to yelp in pain. Like the cat, she got in one final claw attack, collecting blood and skin under her nails, but once he had both hands bound he could pull her wherever he wanted. She was still screaming as he wrenched her across the floor.

  “Shut up. Shut up,” he hissed under his breath, the words coming out like a rush of wind. He went for the first place he could find, lashing the other end of the twine around the door to the oven set high up in the wall pillar, then yanking her toward it until her arms and half her upper body were slammed against the metal and glass door. Still she struggled, trying to prize herself away, half opening the door with the force of the pull. But this time as he slammed it closed he rammed his other hand into her stomach and the hurt was so great that for the moment she couldn’t breathe, let alone fight back. She collapsed, her legs giving out beneath her, her body shaking with pain and terror. Don’t pass out, she thought. Whatever you do, don’t pass out.

  “Don’t fucking move,” he yelled, standing over her, his own breath coming in great wild gulps. “What did you take me for, eh? Did you think I was stupid? Did you? Did you think I’d be fooled by that piece of pornography? Think I wouldn’t know it was a trap?”

  Somebody’s got to be hearing this, she thought. Eight o’clock on Christmas Day. Nobody puts on Van Morrison this early in the morning then yells over the top of it. This has to register as more than marital discord. All you’ve got is your voice now, girl. Use it. Use it.

  “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go!” The saliva behind the words meeting his face as missile spittle.

  His answer came by wrapping his hands around her neck and pushing his thumbs into her windpipe.

  The pain and the panic were instantaneous, followed by a terrible, useless clutching for breath. The crushing of the windpipe: a thing so fragile you could almost feel it break. No air, no life. I don’t want to die. . . . Please don’t let me die.

  “Please . . .” She felt herself choking on the word, knowing that her face was swelling up, feeling the pressure building up behind her eyes until she was sure she was going to black out. How easy it is to kill someone. How quick. No room for words, even the thoughts were getting fainter, like a lightbulb dimming into blackness.

  Suddenly the pressure was released. She took huge, desperate gulps of air, but it hurt so much she thought for a moment she was still dying. Then came the coughing. He stood back from her, watching, waiting, moving nervously from foot to foot, as if his violence had surprised even him.

  “You shout one more time and I’ll shove a gas rag in your mouth and light it. Okay?”

  She tried to nod but still didn’t seem to be breathing properly. He growled at her, as if her weakness was making him even madder, but he moved over to the sink and poured her a cup of water. When he brought it back he had to hold it to her mouth. She took small sips, felt a waterfall of it pouring down her chin onto her clothes. Like a baby. How quickly you can take it all away from someone, make them slobber, make them scream. But I’m not going to thank you, she thought. And the force of her defiance made her feel alive again.

  She made herself look at him. His face up close was red and blotchy, as if in throttling her he had half throttled himself, with the marks of her nails running a crosswise grid across one cheek. This is the man I’m going to have to fuck again before I die, she thought. Before I die. But how? More choking, or the hammer? No one had mentioned strangulation. But she couldn’t see the hammer. Where would he hide it? In his jacket pocket? In the back of his jeans? Cracking skulls like eggshells. Where had she heard that phrase? Jake—Jake and his cop poetry. Except the imagery didn’t leave any room for the blood. She was crying. But it didn’t seem to matter now. Nothing mattered as long as she could breathe again.

  “You should see yourself.” He snorted. “You need a handkerchief. You’ve got snot coming out of your nose. Now you know how it feels, eh? Eh? You lied to me, you know. You said it was over. You said you wouldn’t tell anyone. But you didn’t keep your word, did you? So why should I have kept mine?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he smashed his hand over it again. “You got something to say? Or do you just want to stop breathing again?” She shook her head. He kept his hand there and the mucus from her nose trickled over his fingers. The humiliation of it made her feel like a child. “You shouldn’t have done it. Stupid slob.” He pulled his hand away and wiped it on his trousers. “Your word, you know, slob. I never use it. But you’ve made me get to like it. It’s not what you usually call ladies. But, then, you’re not one anyway. Maybe that’s why I chose you in the first place, eh?”

  He paused and his silence timed itself into the music: Van at his most content, a voice like a caress, making your heart bleed at its beauty.

  This must be what paradise is like

  So quiet in here, so peaceful in here.

  Music to die to. A love song. Third track of the album. Had it really been playing for so little time? It felt as if they had been locked into this for hours. He laughed, a tight, guttural little sound. “You like him, eh? Me, too. It’s yours, remember. I’ve brought it back for you. Thought you might want to hear him again.”

  And all the time that he spoke, he kept jiggling around on the balls of his feet, a man unable to stay still, not knowing what to do with his own body. He was like some peripheral fuckup character from a Tarantino movie, jerky in both mind and soul, his violence almost too capricious for anyone to take much notice of it.

  Nerves, she thought. Everything about you is nerves. An overload of adrenaline. No wonder he had liked Jake so much. Both of them were dying to lose it. All they needed was to be pushed hard enough. But he was the one who’d done it. Twice in one night. What had happened to the first to make him still so hungry? Had she died before he got his rocks off properly? She felt herself start to shake again.

  “You scared, then?”

  She tried to shake her head but the movement didn’t entirely work.

  “Yeah. Well, you’ve got something to be scared of. Because you’re on your own now. They’ve gone. And they’re not coming back. Did you really think it would work? Eh? You should never have given them the wrong house. What? You think I didn’t recognize your car outside? Your car, your house, your book. I’ve seen it all. That’s what I’ve been doing. Getting to know you. Getting to hope you like me.”

  He sang the last sentence in a tuneless high voice, as if laughing at himself. “Not as good as you, eh? But, then, we haven’t all got your talent. Was it their idea you send me that filth? No, too much of you in there, I’d say. You liked it, didn’t you? Just like you liked standing up there last night taking off your clothes like some cheap stripper. I bet they didn’t know about that bit. Too busy chasing cats through cat flaps in the middle of the night. None of you slept much after that, eh? Me, neither. But, then, I was too excited by what was to come.”

  There was something in what he said that didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t work out what it was. She was crying so hard now she couldn’t see through her own tears. He stared at her for a moment, then dug something out of his pocket. She flinched, expecting a gag, but instead he wiped a piece of cloth across the end of her nose. It smelled foul. Gasoline.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. “I—”

  But he clamped a hand back over her mouth. “Shhhh. Don’t spoil it. You’ll only lie, and then I’ll want to hurt you again.”

  She stood still, trying to find a way to make her eyes convince where her tongue couldn’t. He seemed to hesitate, as if he wasn’t sure of the next move. He growled, as much at himself as at her, then quickly pushed his hand up under her skirt, fumbling for the edge of her panties.

  I should have
worn jeans, she thought. It would have given me more time. Except then he’d have had to cut them off me. And you can’t do that with a hammer. She glanced around the room. The knife block was on the other side, near to the sink. Too far for either of them. The scissors would be closer, somewhere near the stove.

  “I promise . . .” she said quietly as he took his hand off her mouth, her voice thin, pushing up through the bruising in her throat. “I promise you, it wasn’t all lies. I really did want to see you again.”

  He gave a groan, as if the words hurt him, but at least he didn’t hit her, just kept prodding about, as if he didn’t know what he was looking for. Then he found it, and slammed two fingers up into her. This time there was no moisture to welcome him. This time it hurt. And not just in her cunt.

  Inside her head a voice was talking. Is this what you wanted? it was saying. Pleasure like this. You wrote it, babe, you better live it.

  You already know this man, she thought, as if in answer to herself. What can be so bad about it the second time around? Even if you’re not ready for it. Fuck me, but don’t kill me, please. I don’t want to die. Please. Don’t make me have come through all this, all the pain and the crap of Tom and me, the learning to be alone, all of this, just to become some murder statistic. Somebody they’ll talk about. Worse, somebody they’ll forget. The tenth victim. The one after he started killing. Oh God, I don’t want to die. The thoughts rolled in like heavy surf, she felt herself tumbling over in them, taking in water, unable to think straight.

  He brought his face near to hers and pushed his tongue inside her mouth. She wanted to throw up over him. But if she did that she might end up choking on her own vomit.

  The sound smashed through the pain. It cut into both the music and the fear. They both froze. The doorbell, long and loud. Somebody was at the door. Somebody had come to save her.

  He yanked his tongue out of her mouth, but kept his face close to hers, forcing her head backward.

  “Who?” he hissed.

  But his hand was so tight she couldn’t talk. He loosened his grip. “The police,” she said quickly. “They told me they’d come back to check.” The bell rang again, someone was keeping their finger on it this time. Whoever it was really expected her to be there to answer it. “They won’t go until they see that I’m all right.”

  He almost believed her, you could see that from the way he looked wildly around. But he wasn’t stupid. That much she already knew. And if the police had been coming back she would have played it as a trump card sooner.

  She didn’t have much time. She had a sudden flash of Malcolm standing on the doorstep, a bottle of vodka in Christmas wrapping and a couple of joints in his jacket pocket. I’m here, she shouted in her head. But whoever it was wouldn’t stand outside forever. Could they hear the music? Maybe not— it was such a quiet track. But it was also ending. Don’t go yet, oh, please God, don’t go yet. In the silence between songs they would certainly be able to hear a scream.

  She never got to deliver it. As the music faded and she opened her mouth, he saw the scream coming and slammed his hand into her face, smashing her head back into the glass door. This time his body came with it and she felt the thrust of his prick against her stomach.

  The silence came and went and the music started again, Van still in a meditative mood, no thumping rock ’n’ roll chords to boom their way out through wood and glass.

  Whoever it was stopped ringing and went away. By the oven door he went to work immediately. The rag came back out of his pocket and this time went straight into her mouth. The fumes were unbearable. They would make her sick. But they wouldn’t kill her.

  He’s taken your voice, so start using your brain. But to do what? Whatever it was, she was going to need her hands. She pushed herself upward a fraction, to take the strain off her wrists, using the fingers of her right hand to push between the twine and the wrist of her left. If she could free one she could then loosen the other. She had to be careful, though—too much movement in her hands and the oven door would pull open and he would spot it, and read it as an attempt to escape. What she needed was time. And now he was in a hurry.

  The bell had made him angry. He was pulling at her panties, impatient, ripping away at the material. His face was sweating now, contorted with something that seemed like pain as much as lust. No, not pain. A kind of fear. Just as on that first night, he was scared. Of her, but also of himself. And it was the fear that would make him kill her.

  He moved away from her and fumbled with his trousers, ripping at the stud, pushing down at the waistband to free himself. This was the bit you never saw in the movies. Even the most violent of rape scenes stopped short of showing the engorged cock. Instead you got to read the size of the erection from the panic and trauma in the woman’s face, her fear working as the trigger of fantasy. The perfect censorship for voyeurism.

  He let out a grunt as the trousers came free and slid down to his knees and pushed himself toward her. And as he did so she suddenly knew what it was that hadn’t made sense to her earlier. If he had spent so long watching them watching him, when could he possibly have had time for St. John’s Way?

  There was no space to think of it now. Pinning her shoulders to the door he tried to slam himself into her. But this bit wasn’t like the movies. With her body half slumped on the ground he couldn’t penetrate properly, couldn’t negotiate the angle of entrance. The failure drove him wild. “Get up,” he shouted, trying to push her body to a standing position. “Get up or I’ll cut you in two.”

  Then came the noise. A battering, crashing wail from the French windows. They both turned their heads in time to witness the extraordinary sight of a middle-aged woman in a winter coat hurling herself at the window, her arms outstretched against the glass like some crazed avenging angel.

  Christmas morning, and if you can’t go to church, then the Church will come to you. The window shook under the impact but it didn’t give. While the spirit was willing the flesh was weak. And since it is God’s will that the contest between good and evil should be a fair one, Catherine Baker now found herself trapped on the outside, a helpless witness to the dance of death unfolding within.

  In the kitchen, the sight of her drove him into a frenzy. But it also distracted his attention for a split second. Now she was ready for him. Using both her hands she grabbed the handle of the oven and, as he turned back to her, yanked the door open with all her might. The side of it caught him full in the face, sending him sprawling backward into the table. She manipulated the cords on her left hand frantically. As he righted himself she saw there was blood flowing from above one eye. The twine was almost loose enough. He came toward her again. This time she used her foot, going for the exposed groin, missing it, but connecting near enough to the swelling to cause him a crippling pain.

  Outside she could hear Catherine shouting, the voice rich and strong, trained on sermons and blessings, raising the alarm. She gave one last tug and her left hand came free. She picked frantically at the right, but the noose was still too tight. With her good hand she could now reach the counter. She grabbed the scissors and started hacking at the twine between her wrist and the door handle.

  He was already uncurling himself from the floor and coming at her, his right eye completely obscured by blood. The twine gave way just as he reached her and she turned, the scissors clasped in front of her.

  He rammed so hard into her that it sent the handle digging deep into her stomach. His groan was like the one she remembered from his orgasm, rising up from somewhere dark inside him. He stood rigid against her, his eyes staring into hers, as if trying to work out how it was that she could have hurt him so much, then he fell heavily against her. She had to put her arms around him to stop him crashing to the ground. They stood there clinging to each other, the sticky wetness growing between them like the first wild flow of menstrual blood.

  Suddenly, it was as if someone had turned out all the other lights in the world; they were alone together, no avengin
g angels, no disturbance, not even any voices through the glass. Just a man and a woman squeezed into the stillness between the hands of the clock, all their energy focused on his pain and the greedy, gushing blood.

  When she couldn’t hold him any longer she slumped down onto the floor, grasping his body and pulling it half across her legs in a bloody pietà. There was so much blood now; it was gulping out over him, soaking his shirt, running down onto her bare legs, the scissors jutting awkwardly from the wound. She was too scared to touch them. He was too bound up inside the pain to care. The one time in her life when she had really hurt herself, had burned a layer of skin off the palm of her hand, the agony had been so intense that the world around had ceased to exist; there had been just her and it, locked in total combat. She saw the same thing in him now.

  “It’s okay,” she said hoarsely, her voice raw from all kinds of damage. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. Hang on.”

  But even as she said it she knew it was a lie. He tried to say something in response, but the words came out as a vomit of blood, oozing down his chin and onto her hand supporting his head. The feel of it was warm and generous. One more appalling intimacy between them.

  He shivered and she pulled her arms tighter around his shoulders, bending her body over him until her head was cradled next to his. It was like the end of their lovemaking, when she had hugged him and he had started to cry. She should have known then that he wasn’t a killer. That the hammer was just a piece of copycat bravura, and that underneath all that fury and frustration there was only pain.

  He was having trouble breathing now, the air in his lungs mingling with the blood and sending a gurgling sound up through his throat. It reminded her of Millie when she had found her under the bushes. Another part of their story. They had so much history between them. A relationship really. But, then, that was what it had been. She knew that now. Soon she would be the only one to know it. To know exactly what it was he had done. And what he hadn’t.