The warning wasn’t the stinging of her skin, it was the water beginning to run cold. She’d scrubbed and scrubbed, rinsed and then scrubbed again. All of her was red, raw looking. She hadn’t noticed. So much of her was pain that it wasn’t important. But the water running cold, that was important. That said something about time, about how long she’d been in there. The whole of the cubicle was fogged, cloudy. Opening the door, a blast of seemingly frigid air enveloped her. As did the stench of urine. She stepped carefully out of the cubicle, reaching for the towels warming on the heated bar. She placed them all on the floor, watching them soak up the fluid, watching the stain soak through them. When they were all down she walked round them, skirting them, and opened the cupboard. She brought out fresh towels and wrapped her body in one, then her hair. They were massive, covering most of her. She added a third across her shoulders, like a cape. All that showed was her shins, her ankles and her hands. And her face. She looked around. There wasn’t a mirror. She sat down on the toilet seat, shaking. She wasn’t sure if she could ever stand again. She looked at the door. It was white, with black running through it, as if it too was marble. There was no lock. No bolt. Nothing. The panic started up in her. She pushed it down, ruthlessly pushed it far away, away to the place the questions were. When she could afford it, then she’d bring it back. Not now. With a deep breath, she forced herself to stand, forced herself to open the door. The voice inside her was utterly silent, for which she was grateful.
He had to admit he was startled as the bathroom door opened: surprised. He had expected to have to go and fetch her. He had taken the stopping of the shower as his cue and was waiting long enough for her nerve to break before going in and getting her. He was undecided if he was pleased, or annoyed, at the change of plan. The going to get her plan had involved wondering if she would fight, or try to run? Run was fun, fighting was fine. Would give him a chance to lay down some rules. He had been running through both scenarios, deciding which pleasure he actively wanted her to present him with. She had done neither, forced him to recalculate: he was pleased. Good thing he had laid the table out all ready. It would not have done to be caught on the hop. He watched her edge nervously into the room. Great fun. Yes, this was better than having to go fetch her. He lifted the first pot.
“Tea?”
She jumped when he spoke, then froze, her exit from the bathroom interrupted. He stood by a table, a table laden with plates and cups and tea things. His raised hand held a silver tea pot. She stared.
“I find tea a most refreshing drink.” He picked up a plain white cup and saucer, deftly filling the cup. “Also...” placing the pot back onto the cloth, he picked up a silver jug. “I find it an excellent activity in those awkward social moments.” He smiled at her. “Milk?”
She stared. He ignored her.
“It is quite interesting you know, that today...” he poured the milk and placed both cup and jug down. “... very few people take sugar in their tea. Once, it was almost unheard of not to put sugar in your tea. Now, no one I know puts sugar in their tea.”
He had moved round the table, ‘til he was on the far side of it, and sat down. As he poured his own tea, he glanced up at her, smiling, then busied himself. He finished speaking as he dropped two white sugar lumps into his own cup. The noise of his stirring mesmerised her, transfixed her. Nothing she could think of, nothing she could imagine, explained what was happening. He finished stirring and placed the teaspoon delicately onto the edge of the saucer. As he lifted the cup to his lips, he inhaled deeply. He smiled, then sipped.
“Delicious. One of my favourite mixes. Most refreshing.” He indicated her own cup, sitting on the table. “Will you not join me?”
The menace was thick, the message clear. It broke through to her. She moved forward slowly, awkwardly, not wanting to get closer to him. She wanted to look around the room, get her bearings back, but the need to keep looking at him overrode everything. The chair she was to sit on was pulled back and angled, making it easy for her to seat herself.
“Excellent. Do try the brew, see if it is to your liking. Biscuit?”
Again, as he offered her a plate of pale Madeleine’s, his tone was unmistakable. She reached forward, hesitated, then picked one up. She cradled it in her lap as he prattled.
“It is an interesting blend, mostly Assam with some Darjeeling...” his voice droned on, somewhere above her.
She was staring fixedly at the white linen table cloth. The voice at the back of her mind was assessing it dispassionately. Had to be linen, such a large, yet fine, weave. It gleamed. The light bouncing off it with a shimmer. Her hand reached forward involuntarily, touching it. Damask, said the voice, definitely the finest Damask linen.
“It is Damask,” he said. “Do you like it?”
She startled out of her reverie so suddenly she couldn’t breathe, blood pounding in her temples. She looked over to him. The terror in her eyes was almost a force, a tangible sensation that flooded him. He took her gift eagerly, pressing for more.
“Do have some tea, it will make you feel better.”
He pushed the cup and saucer towards her. His hand reaching closer froze her for a moment, sent her blood pressure racing, her heart skipping beats. She was transfixed, unable to take her eyes from the smoothness of his hand. Pale smoothness, not unlike the cup. The contents swelled slightly, resettling. The dreaming quality returned, the cup shimmering, shifting in front of her. Her eyes hurt with the effort of looking at it, looking so hard she wondered that it didn’t shatter. There was a slight noise, he cleared his throat: impatience. She lifted her hands, which were very heavy, unwieldy, one aiming for the cup, the other the saucer. Both landed roughly where they should, she grasped, pulling them back to her. The cup trembled slightly as it travelled, liquid swelling up, dribbling over her hand. The heat was warming, she cupped both hands around and raised it to her lips. She felt the heat rise and touch her skin, tickle her nose. The tea was very milky, not at all what a good Northern Lass should be drinking. She swallowed some down, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back, not wishing to see him. There was pain as it flooded down her throat. She found it hard to swallow, had to force the muscles to work. Yet it was also good, refreshing. Her thirst roared within her, demanding more. She clattered the empty cup back onto the saucer.
“There, I thought that might be just what the doctor ordered.”
She didn’t look up as he drew the cup back, poured another cup, pushed it back to her. It was just as milky as the first. She reached for it shakily, her hand overshooting the mark. The cup, and its contents, spilled wildly across the table, soaking the perfect Damask. Her hand stayed where it was, over the now empty saucer, her eyes watching the spreading stain.
“Tut tut, what a pity. Here, allow me.”
He’d stood somehow, and was now beside her. White napkins, which she hadn’t noticed, were being piled onto the tea stain in an attempt to soak up the mess. The tea blossomed through.
“What a nuisance, here, let me have this towel.”
The towel from around her head was whisked off before she’d reacted to his request, its thick pile more use than the napkins. He was so close to her, she could feel the air between them move as he leaned this way, then that. He pushed the pot, sugar bowl and Madeleine’s back, mopping at the massive stain one small cup had made. When it was contained, he picked the Madeleine’s up, wiping dry the bottom of the plate.
“What a mess. Dreadful of me, to over fill that cup.”
He carried on mopping, pushing dry towel onto wet cloth, drawing out the stain, carefully blotting round its edges. Satisfied, he turned to her.
“Here, run and get me a towel soaked in cold water, to stop it drying.”
He handed her back her towel, smiling. He motioned to the bathroom door, encouraging. She watched his back as he again turned to the table, moving things around. She stood, shakily, clutching the soiled towel to her middle, afraid the ones wrapped around her body might fall. She
backed away, eyes never leaving his back, until she bumped into the edge of the bed. With a tiny yelp, she turning, fleeing into the bathroom, almost tripping on the towels she had left dealing with her other stain. She dropped the one she held, pulled a fresh one from the cupboard, stuffing its bulk into a sink and turning on the cold tap. The water spouted up and over her but she barely noticed. Her mission was to get that towel as wet as possible, as fast as possible. She jammed the towel in one end of the sink, watching as it pushed out the other. This just wasn’t working. The whole dammed thing was never going to fit in the sink! Panic started once more, and she picked the towel up and threw it into the bath, turning off the sink tap as she went. This time, as cold water flooded the towel, it started to soak quickly. The water pressure was immense, the bath rapidly filling. She switched it off, swirled the towel round, picking up one edge and wringing it out over the bath, working her way up the length as she pulled it clear of the water. It could only have been two, maybe three minutes before she was back in the bedroom, hurrying forward with her burden. He’d cleared the cloth out from the table and folded it neatly. He took the towel from her and wrapped it around the tablecloth, as if he were wrapping a gift.
“There, that should keep it from drying out until I can get it cleaned. I shall just go pop it into a plastic bag.”
He smiled once more, and quickly left the room via the door that she’d been not looking at. Silence crashed around her. Her legs felt weak and before she’d really noticed what she was doing, she’d sank down onto the edge of the bed. He’d left the door open, light spilled in, forming a long rectangle on the floor. She stared at it. A thought was just beginning to form, who knows what it might have been, when she saw his shadow precede him. She lifted her head. He was drying his hands on a small towel, no a tea towel. He used it to wipe clean the surface of the table. There had been a tray, somewhere on the floor on his side of the room, for he leaned down, lifting it up onto the table top. It took seconds to clear the clutter, all neatly piled up. He sighed, then leaned down to the floor, picking up the Madeleine she’d cradled.
“Clumsy.” He shook his head. “Never mind, mess can always be cleaned up, always.”
His voice on the second ‘always’ was faded, distant. It sent a chill down her spine, the hairs on her neck prickling. She contained the shudder that went through her as he once more swept out of the room, this time with tray in hand. Her eyes returned to the light that blazed across the floor. The floor gleamed under its impact. She moved her feet, feeling the cool surface. The light continued to bounce up at her, bounce up from the smooth, seamless floor. The floor was covered in linoleum. Thick, dark coloured linoleum. Her hands rested back onto the bed cover as she puzzled this. As they sank onto the sheeting, she felt the slight crinkling underneath. The voice inside her head rang out with authority, with warning. She realised it had been trying to say something for some time. Her hands massaged the soft covering, investigating. The crinkling was way down, two or three layers. She pulled back the edge of the sheets. There, under three sheets, was a bed protector, sealing the mattress. Gleaming, exactly as the floor gleamed. The voice became louder, more insistent. Instinctively, she covered the bed back up as she tried to grapple with what it was saying, what her mind had noticed. The panic it brought set off her body, dizziness once more threatening to overwhelm her. Her hands began to shake, breathing more difficult. Sweat once more sprang out of every pore in her body. He came back to the room as the scream was fighting up through her chest, desperate to get out. She wouldn’t let it and the effort was choking her. She would hold onto this, her mind was insisting: she had to get a grip. She didn’t look at him, her eyes again studying the floor, the deadly, smooth, eminently cleanable floor. She was wrong, she just had to be wrong. He must have spoken, but she didn’t hear the words, aware only that there were other sounds in the room apart from her heartbeat. The scream was still trying to get up, get outside her, make itself large over her thoughts; she couldn’t risk looking up. She dropped her head lower, her chin dropping onto her chest: she would not scream. Her left wrist was yanked upwards, her head following naturally. He was standing over her, the light from the door once more making his face indistinct. His mouth was moving. She stared at his lips. Her arm was pulled sideways. The pain made her focus.
“I expect to be answered, do you hear me?”
His face was twisted up, his voice too. She nodded, unsure of what he’d said.
“Good, I am glad we have that settled. I did not speak for my own amusement.”
His voice had evened out, unkinked. He let go of her wrist. The pain immediately bloomed through her bones, shot up her arm. She grabbed the wrist with her other hand, rubbing. The pain lit out again, making her groan. He’d turned away from her, closing the door softly. The light was shut out, returning them to the dimmer glow of the lamps. He was there again, beside her.
“Whilst we are on the subject...” the pause had the desired effect. She raised her face to his. “There is still a little outstanding business between us.” His voice was soft, tender; cajoling. “I distinctly remember telling you not to leave the bed.”
Persuading her to do something. She took a deep breath, attempting to calm things: now, more than ever, it was important to look as if she was listening. She raised her face to him, composing it as best she could: she would listen. She didn't see him move, had no time to react, to tense. The force that slammed into the side of her face lifted her off the bed, throwing her sideways onto the floor. She screamed.
About the Author
Morgan Gallagher is in her late 40s, and should know better, about spending her writing life with vampires. However, she has no choice, as they refuse to go away and leave her alone. She lives in the Scottish Borders, with her husband and their six year old son. A full time carer for her husband who is severely disabled, Morgan also works as a volunteer for several charities and is passionate about the rights of babies, children and mothers. She has campaigned vigorously against child detention during immigration procedures. She and her husband home educate their son and attempt to keep a never ending stream of cats under control. The North Sea pounds their fishing village every winter, and every major storm, the entire family are to be found in the car parked on the headland admiring the view. Apart from the cats, that is, who are at home dreaming of summer.
Fragments Page 19