Filling a bowl with tepid water and antiseptic, Dreyfuss attended to her neck. With all the gunge off, the tear was less than he had thought. Pressing the ragged edges together long enough to stop the fresh weeping, he carefully applied four paper stitches, sealing the mess with his own blood. Then he cut her dress and knickers off, sponging her down with cool water, remaking the bed around her. Rechecking her pulse and respiration he adjusted the flow of the drip and switched the light off as he went. He made a light snack of steak and eggs, settling down to watch a movie in peace.
Her dry coughing woke him from the rather pleasant slumber that he had slipped into. He had been dreaming of Eléan; which was unusual, for he had not dreamt of her in years. In the dream, she was calling to him, with that wicked half grin on her sly face. The call in the dream became the cough of his guest: he roused himself. She was half conscious, drifting in the way of those lost in the fight to waken. He gave her a few sips of water, checking her vital signs. She was fine, more or less, and he took out the drip. He needed to sleep, and she would be in the way, so he filled her veins with sedative. He went to bed and dreamed another dream of Eléan.
Looking in on her the next morning he was satisfied to see she had responded well to the enforced slumber. Her fatigued body was slowly recovering from the added stress of their encounter. Her mind wasn’t happy with the arrangement, her twisting and turning had pulled the sheet out from under her, but her skin tone was improved greatly. He shot her through once more with enough sedative to keep her under for a few more hours. His body ached from lack of activity and he felt in need of more work out than could be achieved on his home equipment. It wouldn’t do to have her up and around, screaming and pathetic when he returned from the gym. Without thought of it, his hands drifted over her body in more than a clinical assessment of injury. He hesitated over her breasts, slowly dragging his fingers over her left nipple. It sprung to life, reacting to his touch. He smiled, that sense of complete possession as sweet as ever. For whimsy, he brought the other to attention by the merest of touch of his breath. Sensing his invasion, she pulled away, a frightened moan escaping her lips. His smile deepened as he reached once more for the sedative. He pushed her so far under he heard her heart slow, her breathing hesitate, before settling into shallow swoops. He pinched her hard, on the fold under her arm: nothing. Lifting a lid he touched her eye: nothing. The smile that slipped from his lips as his hands travelled down to her groin was nothing short of a gloat: it was always so easy. The pleasure in digging his fingers deep inside her was not the pleasure of invasion, for that was a pleasure that palled all too quickly. It was the complete absence of awareness in her slack face, the total surrender of her limbs that enthralled him. She had no clue as to what was happening to her. He dug around, pushing the dry warm flesh this way and that, until it filled with moistness and expanded. He stabbed his rigid fingers into her cervix: nothing. All that was in her world, now, was his will. Even when she was unconscious, all she was, was his. Satisfied, he cleaned his fingers on the bedding and left.
He enjoyed the walk through the back streets to the gym he favoured for swimming. Most of the weights and running equipment was too light-weight, but the pool was almost perfect. He mulled the situation over as he pushed himself endlessly through the water, length after length ripped in two and left behind him. Which was the more sustained pleasure, the subtle yet silent power of the invisible, or the more immediate involvement of fear and struggle? It was an eternal question, one that he never truly managed to answer. For as he indulged in one, the other would entice his mind, beguiling him with the promise of more: a longer lasting satisfaction, a sharper and sweeter joy. It was a dilemma that shaped much of his life, that pushed and pulled at many layers of his living. Even now, as he changed back to the butterfly, it teased at him, took his mind off the rhythm of his stroke. For strength, he preferred to work out at home, where prying eyes could not react to the dead weights he could so easily conquer. He could pile the pressure onto his body, fighting his own limitations, testing out his mind’s strength in complete secrecy: no awareness of watchful humans to slow his responses and advise caution. Stamina however was always a public sport. No pleasure there unless observed, no triumph unless the bested stood in front of him, wheezing and shaking in their defeat. Five of the gym’s finest had slowly watched as he turned again and again, each length timed exactly to match the previous. In stamina he was only slightly more than they, each turn meting out as much punishment on him as it did them: yet he never lost. Three had taken his silent challenge today, and two were spent and useless, fighting for breath at the pool’s edge. He gloried in their weakness, their lack. The one still struggling on and on with him, ploughing a now straggly furrow in his wake, was going to drop out soon: the switch to butterfly had seen to that.
He smiled as he tucked under once more, kicking softly against the edge, unwilling to allow his strength to gain him advantage. The victory would be his fairly; there was the joy. The only pain was that it would soon be time to move on, find new territory. Few accepted the silent challenge anymore, too much defeat etched in their faces. A new club with a well sheltered pool would have to be found. New meat to be taunted with his pale and slender body. New muscle bound fools to pitch against him, to be fired up by his feet kicking dust in their eyes as he passed. He mused on the pleasures in his life as he dried, aware that today’s prize had been bought for him by his sleeping playmate. The joys had once more begun to drain out of his life, slowly, almost unnoticed. The taste of her defeat had awakened him, brought life back to a jaded palate. A few days off work to play, to sport: that was just what he needed. What a gift he would give her, letting her final days serve his greater needs.
CHAPTER THREE
The first thing she was truly aware of was a cramp, low in her back. She wasn’t sure exactly when she became aware of it, how long she’d been listening to her body groan, but slowly, carefully, the awareness that this was real, her back was hurting, she was asleep, or had been, settled in her mind. It was dark, too dark; that wasn’t helping. Where was it, that it was this dark? Not her own bedroom for sure. Not her lumpy bed and rickety windowsill, traffic noises seeping through with the streetlights. The bed beneath her was straight, even with her weight on it. The dark around her, absolute. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on waking up. Her mouth was dry and filthy, caked with gunge. As she struggled to push her body awake, to sit up, make sense of the confusion, she flitted her tongue round and round, desperately seeking moisture. The pain from her back was sharp and fresh as she pulled forward, making her wince. What on earth had happened that her back hurt so? The question sat in her mind, trying to make some sense to her. She fumbled around, feeling the soft bed that surrounded her. How big could a bed be? She leaned to the side, reaching for an unseen edge, trying to find an end to this smothering softness. Her head spun, dizziness almost overwhelming her. A nausea rose within her, she gagged. She wasn’t going to throw up, she wasn’t going to throw up. She certainly wasn’t going to throw up until she had worked out where she was. She dropped back on the bed, closing her eyes. She’d moved too fast, the dizziness got worse not better. She groaned, which turned out to be a worse move than flopping back on the bed. Her throat felt awful, like she’d swallowed crushed glass. Hot and dry and raw all at the same time. As she lay there, trying to control her panic, her breathing, her dry mouth, her head began a wicked beating. Thrum, thrum, thrum. If this was a hangover, she didn’t want to think about what she’d been drinking. Her back had eased slightly on lying back, but when she tried to move upwards, it screamed protest once more. Fear started to edge out panic: what had she been doing that had hurt her back? Whatever the answer was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about it, not yet.
Gritting her teeth she forced herself to sit up, sitting straight up on the bed. The wave of nausea hit again, as did the dizziness. She rode it out, clutching a sheet to her face, concentrating on not throwing up, not passin
g out and not going back down into the bed. The thrumming threatened to split her head open, but she kept on in there. The feeling of sickness passed, as did the dizziness. Her back stayed raw and sharp, but got no worse. As the thrumming finally started to ease off, she became aware of a harsh rasping breath in the room beside her: laboured, dangerous. She almost screamed, clamping her hand over her own mouth, the noise stopped. Fear froze down her spine, blocking out all thoughts of her back, her pain, her headache. She clutched herself tightly, knees automatically raised to tuck under her chin. The rasping breath started again. She scrunched her eyes tight shut, tears squeezing out of the edges, and once more clamped her hand over her mouth, anything to make herself disappear. The noise stopped again. She held her breath, better to hear the darkness: nothing. The moment stretched and broke. She let the trapped air in her lungs out, the movement forcing more pain from her throat, her back, her head. The rasping started again. A whimper fled from her throat and was out into the darkness before she could help it. She again held her breath, this time her hands flying up to cover her head, her chin tucking down, seeking protection from her knees. The rasping stopped. As she lay there, tight and curled, awaiting whatever monster was in the room with her, she thought this through. An idea occurred to her. Lifting her head, she gasped in some air, once more releasing the bottled up feeling in her lungs. The rasping started once more. She held her breath. The rasping stopped. She breathed out. The rasping started up again. Relief flooded through her, limbs turning liquid; she crumpled once more back onto the bed. It was her! The noise she’d heard, that awful rasping breath, it was her own. The darkness, the silence in the room, it had fooled her.
She giggled, a strange and monstrous sound on its own, forced as it was through her aching throat, but she didn’t care. The fear that had frozen her bones melted, leaving them molten and warm in its wake. She was drained, shaking a little, almost shivering with the relief. A laugh escaped her lips, god, she was a goose. What a stupid cow, to get herself into such a fright from listening to her own breathing. She flung her hands back, pulling air deeply into her lungs, listening to the sound of it all around her. Her back once more announced itself and she stretched, trying to persuade the aching to retreat, she was okay, it was just cramp from sleeping wrong. Her back wasn’t convinced, but she kept it up, tightening and then flexing her spine, her legs, her arms. Her head hated it, the thrumming increasing, but she wasn’t going to let herself get back into the state she’d just left. As she stretched her right hand and arm out, moving her shoulder this way, then that, her hand connected with something solid. She leaned back, tracing the line her hand found: the headboard. Great, with a little bit of luck, she’d find out where she was. Following the line of the padded board, she inched around to the edge of the bed. It seemed to be miles away, but she got there. Left hand still touching the headboard, right hand on the edge of the mattress. She lifted her right hand and gingerly stretched it out, into nothingness, fingers splayed, seeking. There was a bump, and she nearly screamed again, but she’d found what she was looking for. Her arm had connected with something soft, yet solid, movable. A lamp shade. Shifting over a little, both hands examined the shade, which was your normal round sorta-pyramid shape. The noise of her moving the cover blotted out her breathing. She found the wooden stem it sat on, and her fingers explored, seeking. There, under the bulb, where it should be, there was the switch. It was stiff, and she had to really push to get it on, something she should have thought through a little more, for as light suddenly flooded the room, she screamed and once more fell back onto the bed. Her eyes, shit her eyes. She threw her arms over them, to protect them from the light, but it was too late. Brightness danced in front of her, stabbing the backs of her eyes, hurting more than the headache. She dug her hands into them, rubbing hard, as if she could rub both pain and after images away. Shit, why hadn’t she thought of that? She lay there, convinced she should feel the light through her skin, trying to get her breath back and her eyes back into their sockets. She turned over, ignoring the agony this caused her back and buried her face in a pillow. The stabbing lights slowly calmed down, although even with her eyelids closed tight, buried in the pillow, she could see ghostly images as she moved her head.
Anger began to chase out her panic. Anger at her own stupidity and whoever had gotten her here, to make such a fool of herself. She turned and sat up, once more ignoring both back and head, and shifted back ‘til she was leaning on the head board, her hands protecting her eyes. She forced herself to calm down, to unwrinkle her eyes. Light was leaking through both her fingers, and her lids, turning everything red. The ghost of the lamp still danced in front of her. She held this pose for what seemed like forever, forcing her pupils to adjust, to get used to the partial light getting through to them. Gradually, she dropped her hands ‘til only her lids protected her. She blinked, opening her eyes and closing them again, testing their responses. She turned her face away from the main source, away from the light, so she could look into the shadows on the left hand side of the bed. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was bearable. She forced them to open, to adjust. Blinking away tears, she turned her head slowly, making it come into contact with more of the lamp, so she could see where she was. The scream that bounced around the walls pierced her, made her jump, made her throat contract with the pain and fear of it. She didn’t recognise it as her own such was the shock.
Just by the lamp, there was a man sitting in a chair, looking straight at her.
He allowed himself a small smile then pulled his face back into emptiness. Would not do to give her too much to work with, would it?
The scream just kept echoing, on and on; she pulled back, scuttling as far away from him as she could. She stopped only when she knocked into the lamp on the other side of the bed, the crash as it flew back adding to her panic. Wedged in the corner, her body pushed as far as it could into the soft headboard on one side, the hard edge of a bedside table digging into her back. The scream just kept on going, filling the room, filling her. He stared at her, not moving, doing nothing but look. The voice stood between them, a solid, viscous barrier, carrying her shock and fear, but it couldn’t hold up. The already bruised and swollen muscles in her throat gave out, the screams became less powerful, more broken, more hoarse. When they shattered into a wretched moaning, she realised they were hers, that she had been the one screaming, and that it wasn’t achieving anything. She slowly wound down, a fractured organ running out of air. Silence crashed around them, her ears ringing with the force of it. Still, he did nothing but sit and look.
The initial shock was leaving, terror settling in its place. The silence between them became charged with it, alive with it. The pains all around her, her throat, her head, her back, became nothing in that awful stillness, as she watched him and he, her. His gaze upon her was terrible, frightening beyond words. She was caught between fear of not looking at him, in case he moved, and fear of being seen by him. In tiny, desperate movements, her eyes began to flit away from him, to and fro, attempting to build a picture, make sense of where she was. Behind him, in the shadows, there was the outline of a door. The bed she was on was massive, huge. He was easily six feet away from her, six feet of bed between them, then a few inches of space from the bed to the chair. The light from the lamp was actually quite low; there was no sense of colour in the room. There was only dark and light, although she was sure the sheets were white. She clutched them to her, they were soft, luxurious. The touch of them was comforting, reassuring. The reassurance fled as she thought on this, on the feel of it. For the first time her eyes dropped to look at herself, her own state. She was naked. She was totally naked and her right breast wasn’t covered by the sheet. With a yelp, she cowered down more, making herself smaller, pulling the sheet up to her chin. Her hair swung into her eyes, plastering itself to her face. She pushed her right hand up from under the sheet, pulling her hair back. It was soaking, soaked through. Her hair was sodden. She looked at the hand that had touched
it, it was wet, but clear. Water, not blood. She had suddenly been afraid that she was covered in blood. It was sweat, she was covered in her own sweat. Around her, the sheet was staining where it touched skin. All at once she could smell it - the stench of her own body. Sweat and fear, that’s what she smelt of: sweat and fear.
Joanne Maitland hadn’t known that it was possible to smell of fear.
The thought almost broke her, almost made her close her eyes and slip under the white sheet, not caring what happened as long as she couldn’t see him, didn’t have to admit what was happening. It was all so wrong, so very wrong. It was a nightmare, and something was trying to tell her that if she just closed her eyes and slipped under the sheet, all would be well. All she had to do was close her eyes and go back to sleep, then she’d wake, and the nightmare would be over. She ignored the voice, the tiny whispering in the back of her mind. The whispering could shut the fuck up, for nothing, nothing was going to get her to close her eyes with that man looking at her.
He watched the tiny spark in her eye, the glowing heat. He was entranced, delighted. Anger, such a very quick show of anger. This was turning out to be a much better evening’s entertainment than he had hoped for. Anger at this stage boded very well, very well indeed.
Having decided she wasn’t going to close her eyes, wasn’t going to run away, she returned to checking out her surroundings. Her looks away from him gradually became more bold, sustained. A picture was starting to build. Over in the corner, by the door, ran some sort of unit. Dressing table perhaps, with a single shelf that ran the end of the room. Her vision ended where a second lot of drawers began. Carefully, she turned her head slightly, taking in the line as it grew to become a set of wardrobe doors. It was harder for her to sense their exact size and shape as she had to keep flitting her eyes back to check on Him. She couldn’t follow the line all the way through, the angle was wrong. She returned to looking at what she could see, her captor, for that was undoubtedly what he was. Still he sat, still he stared. As if he was made of wax. She dragged her eyes off him, it was terrifying to keep him in her gaze. She stared again at the doorway behind him. The door. He was between her and it. Her and the door. The little voice whispered again. No way, no friggin’ way. She wasn’t going to go any closer to him, not even an inch, never mind run right past him. Her eyes moved off the door, she didn’t even like to look at it, not while that traitorous thought was in her mind. She flicked back to Him: no change. She flicked away, once more examining the wall opposite the bed. On the wall, above the shelf of what might be a vanity unit, there was a drawing, a large one. She couldn’t see what it was, it was too dark, murky. But she could see something, could see the glass which protected it. How hadn’t she noticed it before? It reflected the room back at her. Dimly in places, but clear enough to her now adjusted eyes. In one corner, there was the lamp, his reflection. Then, a straggle of hair framed by a ghostly image of the headboard; herself. Next, in the nearest corner of the picture, showing part of the room she could not see, there was a dark rectangle. A tall dark rectangle that swallowed light utterly. Her eyes flicked between it, and Him. It and Him. The voice was back but this time she was listening. This time it was making sense. Sure, she didn’t know where it led. Sure, it was a slim chance, but it was a chance. She looked back to him, checking. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed. She looked one final time at the reflection, sizing it up. The open doorway was on the same wall as she was, just a little over from the bed. Had to be, or it wouldn’t be in the reflection. Seconds, that was all it would take, seconds. She decided.
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