by David Mathew
Nero envied Jess, her ability to stay away from whatever place that was – or any like it. Her sleep (to Nero) felt pure and refreshing; she would send her memories away, bobbing perhaps on that same wine-hued ocean, in a boat made of folded paper. And her memories were taken from her; they didn’t haunt her… or so it seemed to her teenaged lover. So it seemed to Nero, who could not help despising her a tad more, every time that she closed her eyes to escape this.
But she was stirring now; twitchy; her nose wrinkled swiftly, tasting the air, to make sure that it was safe for her to return.
So Nero looked away.
3.
‘I’m hungry,’ Jess muttered eventually on another day.
Five days in? Six?
Nero ignored her. Never had the phrase ‘same shit, different day’ meant so much or been so apposite; and no longer did he care to tell her to change the record about her hunger pains. She was hungry. Like, yeah? Well, the world was hungry, rah? Stop whining and that… Try as he might not to move, however (an attempt to pretend that he hadn’t heard a sound), a left thigh muscle twanged and a spasm shot through his torso. He’d been seen.
‘I said: I’m hungry, Nero.’
He turned to her. ‘I’ll pop out and get some fried chicken, shall I? You dickhead.’
‘No, you’re the dickhead,’ Jess spat back.
‘Like rah,’ Nero added wearily. As usual he was cuffed to the radiator, which wasn’t turned on, but this time the cuff was only on his left wrist. His right hand was free… not that he could do anything with it.
Unlike Nero on the carpet, Jess had been given a narrow camper bed. She had been restrained so that she could sit up slightly – her right hand cuffed to one of the bed’s pole-like legs – but so that her legs remained widened, with two sets of cuffs securing her ankles to the legs of the bed at the other end. As was Nero, Jess was now naked: if he glanced her way, she had been positioned so that he stared directly at her vagina.
4.
More days had passed. Nero was getting muddled up.
To begin with, Nero hadn’t seen a reason why they’d positioned Jess like that: positioned her so that her legs were open on the camp bed. Positioned her so that any time he glanced in her direction, the first thing he saw of her was her widened vagina. The point was what exactly? He’d seen it before and this new, fresh torture – with Nero still cuffed to the radiator in the walk-in cupboard and Jess cuffed to the camp bed by one wrist, tied the ankles to the bed’s legs so that her thighs were kept parted – was nothing more or less than weird.
But it hadn’t taken him long to learn a grim secret about your girlfriend – one of those secrets that rap or porn didn’t much cover.
You could get too much of a good thing.
Now that the light was left on around the clock, Nero’s only view was of Jess’s labia (the walk-in cupboard had no windows, and he couldn’t stand up anyway), so the new game seemed to consist of artificial light and the sight of sore flesh.
The jailers were not teasing Nero. They were punishing him.
On balance, he had preferred it when he and Jess had been left in the dark for days on end. The artificial light screwed with your body clock. And the company had seemed better… But then, one day, while he’d trembled through a troubled doze, the two men (or at least he’d only heard or seen two so far) had stripped Jess down to the skin. They had probably fucked her as well. And they’d stripped Nero too, the cunts. Left them naked as the day, Adam and Eve in chains.
Nero was sick of the sight of it. Probably Jess thought something similar about the sight of his penis, Nero imagined; but at least he could lift up a leg to block her view; he could shuffle around on the carpet, although the damage done to his rectum made some sitting positions uncomfortable or downright painful. He could show – he could exhibit – some dignity. That was what it boiled down to. Dignity… Which seemed an odd ambition in the circumstances – to be dignified, given everything – but it was the only thing that Nero believed he had left.
Suddenly he started crying. Fury went through his body like volts; he expelled a cry of impotent rage and kicked repeatedly at thin air. Putting everything he had into the action, Nero tugged at the pipe, the bracelet of the cuff chewing into his wrist
The pipe did not move.
He had known that it wouldn’t so why bother? Because he had to do something, that was why. Because he had formed opinions, and plenty of them, about their captors.
The fit passed quickly. Nero leaned against the wall (the same creamy off-white colour as the other three walls, and the door) and hunched himself together in a shaking bundle. The tears were gone; they hadn’t lasted long – they never did. It was anger that he felt now, not sorrow, not grief: anger at his own helplessness. Anger at being in this so-called room. Anger at Jess.
I will kill them.
Nero was as certain of this promise as he was of the disgust and shame that he had experienced, the instant the fat man’s semen had leaked out of his anus that first time, and dribbled between his buttocks, on to his scrotum.
I will kill them. I will do it.
In his mind, Nero said the words slowly, testing them for weight and plausibility. Not only did they seem right, they seemed inevitable: they were the future. Not only would he find pleasure in making them suffer (or so he believed), he would sense that there was no alternative anyway.
‘You finished?’
Nero sighed. Wearily he asked, ‘What now, Jess?’
‘Your little paddy. You had enough?’
‘Yeah.’ Nero didn’t want to face her. He knew that he would though. ‘Yeah, I’ve had enough. Enough of a lot of things.’
And he faced her. She had sat up as well as she could; their eyelines simmered.
The beanie hat she wore said BE MY BABY. So did his.
Hers was pale blue. His was pink.
‘And what good did it do?’ Jess demanded.
‘No good at all.’
‘So you might as well’ve saved your energy.’
Nero sighed again. ‘Yeah, I might’ve,’ he admitted. ‘For what exactly?’
And he turned away. ‘Close your eyes,’ he added as he reached for the slops bucket. He needed to urinate. Without bothering to check if she had closed her eyes (or had lain back down to stare up at the ceiling) Nero did his business while experiencing the twinned emotions of hope and panic. Both of these emotions concerned a visit from one of the two perverts (but probably the fat one; the Italian-looking one appeared less in control). Nero hoped that the fat bastard would come soon to empty his bucket. And he panicked that while he was here he would think up something new to do to his prisoners involving their waste products.
‘Nero?’
‘What is it?’
‘I know this is my fault.’
‘You bet your arse it’s your fault. How do you feel about it?’
‘Rancid, boy.’
‘Yeah. And you’re not the one who’s been buggered. Imagine how I feel!’
‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Jess continued – so carefully and slowly that the words did not sound like hers to Nero’s ears. The tone made him face her once more.
He waited.
A few seconds passed before Jess said, ‘About a year ago, my mum and dad were having problems, right? Mum was gonna leave him. And she wanted me and Vanessa to go with her. So at the weekend we had to go with her to see all these houses on the market – she wasn’t gonna live in their house when the divorce came through, she said.’
Nero waited.
‘And I can’t tell you how many we saw, and Mum going Yes, yes, this is the one, all excited, and me feeling bad when we drove home and Mum told Dad all about what she decided. The girls and I, she kept saying – as if Nessa and me had any fucking say in it. I started to hate her for that. But the point I’m
making is – most of the houses looked just like this.’
‘Like what?’
Jess waved her free hand around to take in the confines of the walk-in cupboard, but at the same time she also meant the bedroom to which it was attached – the bedroom in which both of them had been raped repeatedly after they’d been drugged. The bedroom without any furniture - just a porridge-grey carpet of a hard-wearing fabric and heavy blinds fitted over the window. The bedroom with the locked door… through which both of them had tried to escape when they’d been teased that they could run away. Or when they’d thought they’d got lucky; when they thought their captors had got attention-sloppy after orgasm. (What’s stopping you, fuckhole? the fat one had asked one day near the beginning. And she had tried the door handle. Behind her back he had held up the key, just below the bulb blazing in its ceiling fixture. But you’ll need this first, won’t you... Get on your cunting knees. Now.)
‘Painted cream walls, beige carpets,’ said Jess. ‘No bed or chairs. Probably one of them fireproof doors… It makes me think this house is for sale or rent.’
Growing interested, Nero said, ‘And? Assuming you’re right, what of it?’
‘Well… Sooner or later someone’s gonna make an appointment to view it, to look around. And when they do, fucking Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee will have to move us out of sight.’
Nero snorted. ‘If they haven’t killed us first,’ he answered. ‘We’re already out of sight! We’re in a fucking cupboard!’
‘Killed us?’
‘…Don’t say the thought hasn’t occurred to you.’ As he spoke, the sense of panic won out over the hope that he’d harboured. ‘They haven’t even bothered to mask their faces or covered our eyes, apart from a few days at the start. You think they’re gonna let us go back after this? Grow up.’
Jess paused. A little breathless she said, ‘…I wouldn’t tell.’
‘You’d have no choice,’ Nero informed her. ‘They have police psychologists. You say yes and they know you mean no. And besides, if they move us, what? We escape then? They’ll drug us up, Jess, or brain us or something. It’s a stupid plan.’
‘Well. At least it’s something, Nero. Least I’m trying.’
‘Well don’t. You’re getting on me nerves.’
‘Tough shit,’ Jess answered sulkily.
‘We’re an experiment to them,’ Nero added, closing his eyes. ‘The pink hat on me, the blue hat on you… but it’s pink for girls, blue for boys. Why are they doing that? An experiment, that’s why… And they’re trying to get you pregnant, is my guess. They want a baby to fuck up.’
‘God…’
‘So the good news is you’ve probably got nine months left. The bad news is…’ Nero chuckled with surprising warmth. ‘I probably ain’t.’
I will kill them, Nero’s mind repeated; but this time the promise did not sound anything like as certain as it had before. It more or less concluded with a question mark. The thought crossed his mind that they would want him to kill Jess... in time. The worse thought crossed his mind that by then he would probably do so for a slice of bread.
The worst thought was that he knew there would be no one to start looking for him – not yet. He was not supposed to be in the UK; no one would know that he was missing. But what were Jess’s people doing, that’s what Nero would like to know.
Whipping Boy
1.
Having eaten an extra portion of fried rice for the purposes of tonight’s sex games, Phyllie had no difficulty at all in defecating on Roger’s chest. Sometimes she struggled: she’d be straining like a toddler on the potty, her temples throbbing with the exertion, black marks flitting across her vision as she almost passed out, and all for what? A fawn-coloured, thumbnail-sized Richard, and the perfume of sin and sewers. But not tonight: tonight Roger was treated to a veritable omelette of ordure, which he smeared across his nipples while Phyllie fisted him with one hand and yanked him to a surprisingly copious conclusion with the other. It was only while loading the bedsheets into the washing machine that Phyllie mused on the salad days of their courtship, back when simple urination had been as far as they’d dared to go. How sweet they’d been! How green! But what did it say, she wondered parenthetically, about their marriage, that these days even watersports weren’t enough? On the night after Vig and Dorota’s barbecue, Phyllie had timidly suggested a session of vaginal intercourse, and Roger had looked at her as if she were mad. ‘You mean retro?’ he’d asked. ‘Not even Virginia?’ (Virginia was Roger’s preferred codeword for anal sex, after the broadcaster Virginia Bottomley.) ‘Well, let’s see how it goes, shall we?’ Phyllie had replied, and warming to the theme Roger had grinned and told her that old school might be fun, outré even, and that a minge was as good as a rest. But after ninety minutes he had faltered – the ‘skinhead’ had let him down – and Phyllie had felt obliged, in a spirit of quid pro quo, to pretend to be a rapist again and cuff him to the radiator pipe with the pink fluffy handcuffs that they usually employed only on birthdays or anniversaries. Even then Phyllie had needed to tongue his rectum before he ejaculated… and now it was over again for another evening, with Phyllie setting the machine to a spin-rinse cycle and smiling nostalgically about their early days together, when it had usually consisted of Virginia and watersports… and the odd bit of whipping.
The washing machine hummed; water drenched the drum. Phyllie left the utility room and walked into the study, where the phone was ringing. From upstairs she could hear Roger singing ‘Uptown Girl’ in the shower, and with another smile (she loved him so: Roger, not Billy Joel) she picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s Vig.’
‘Oh hi. How are you, Midas Boy?’
‘Good. Sorry it’s late.’
‘No problem. I just finished having sex.’
‘Oh. Anyone I know?’
‘Some bloke at the bus stop.’
‘Again? And how was he?’
‘Cock like a workman’s shovel.’
‘I was calling about the other night. You didn’t leave a bracelet here, did you?’
‘No, it’s not mine. What does it look like?’
‘Hippie-ish. Little blue triangles hanging off it. Quite nice, but not really Dorota’s taste – not even as finders keepers. Someone left it near the aviary – it might have been one of the kids.’
‘Oh. Talking about the aviary and kids: Roger told me a funny thing that night…’
‘The crying in the woods?’ Vig ventured.
‘Yeah!’
‘I heard about it. But I didn’t hear it – to tell you the truth, I even went into the trees myself, see if I could catch an earful; but no dice.’
‘Spooky. Do you have foxes?’
‘No. I haven’t seen any. Dorota swears she saw a deer – but I’ve got my doubts.’
‘Where is she, by the way? Phyllie asked.
‘Having a bath. She’s trying to decide on her favourite bathroom and she’s taking a bath in a different room each time she has one.’
‘Blimey. How many have you got?’
‘Seven.’ Vig laughed again. ‘Seven bathrooms. I mean, who needs seven bathrooms? Seriously… She’s in there for two hours at a time. Takes a book and a radio; makes an evening of it.’
‘You’re not tempted to join her?’
‘In the bath?’
‘Yes! Be an incorrigible romantic!’
‘No, I don’t think so. Dol’s rather grabby about her privacy.’
‘Shame. Well, if you’re ever tempted away from her loving bosom and want someone to surprise in the bath, you know where to find me, Vig.’
Vig paused. ‘One of the few things we never tried, as I recall.’
‘Are you getting all misty-eyed with nostalgia?’
The question remained unanswered. Changing tack, Vig asked, ‘And wher
e’s Roger, by the way? With you talking so candidly.’
‘He’s having a shower, funnily enough,’ said Phyllie. ‘Case of snap. He likes to have a thorough soak after sex. He’s treating me to Billy Joel’s back catalogue as we speak.’
‘I can’t hear him. You mean you really were having sex?’
‘Of course! You thought I was lying?’
‘Well, exaggerating anyway.’
‘Not at all. I mean, he’s always been a once-a-day man, ever since we got together; but recently, with my bump showing, he’s got this fresh new fat chick and he’s like a rampaging army!’
‘…Hell’s bells,’ said Vig, after another pause.
‘Come and watch some time,’ Phyllie added, ‘you’ll see what I mean. Roger would love that.’
‘We’ve been through this, Phyll.’
Phyllie smiled. ‘I know, I know. Dorota this, Dorota that. Bring her along! More the merrier.’
Vig chuckled. ‘I wish I could see your face,’ he said.
‘Only my face?’
‘To see if you’re having me on.’
‘I’m not, I promise you. Or you could borrow one of our films, as long as I watched it with you… Oh, hang on a minute.’ Phyllie’s ears pricked at the cessation of singing from the first floor. Enjoying the conversation as she was, she was reluctant to hang up, but if Roger was finished in the bathroom… ‘It’s okay: he’s started again. He was obviously choosing from his repertoire. He’s on to ‘Tell Her About It’ now – ironically enough.’
‘Anyway. It’s not your bracelet, then.’
‘It’s not my bracelet. Have you got tired of the big boy table talk?’ Phyllie asked, momentarily confused to hear her own name breathed down the line.
‘Dorota says hi,’ Vig told her.
‘Oh she’s with you now,’ said Phyllie. ‘That was a quick bath, I must say. Evidently… not enough sin in her soul.’