A Class Apart

by Susan Lewis

  Ellamarie hadn’t minded him going. She was delighted that Kate had agreed to a night out at long last; it would do her the power of good. But that in itself made her more angry. She had wanted to see Kate. But when Bob really didn’t look like he was going to show, Ellamarie knew that the evening was ruined for her, so she had jumped into a cab, and come straight home.

  She picked up the phone and rang his mews house. There was no reply, not that she had really expected one, so she slammed the receiver down again. There was no point in going to bed, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. And there was no point in watching TV, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. And she wouldn’t be able to read either. So she poured herself another drink.

  For almost two hours she sat there, getting more and more drunk and, as her anger began to subside, more and more upset. He could at least call, let her know that he was all right, but he didn’t even bother to do that. Finally she gave up and went to bed.

  It was past two o’clock in the morning when a knock on the door finally penetrated her dreams. She reached out to wake Bob. As her hand brushed over the empty pillow she opened her eyes. With a wave of annoyance she dragged herself from the bed and threw on a wrap. She turned on the light and looked at the clock. There was another knock on the door, more impatient this time, and she called out that she was coming.

  She didn’t bother to turn the light on in the hall, she could see well enough from the light in her room.

  There was another knock.

  “All right, all right,” she grumbled. “I’m coming.”

  She pulled open the door. “I was asl . . .” She barely glimpsed the figure in the doorway before she was thrown violently against the wall. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand was clasped firmly over it. Then she heard the door slam, and she was being pushed back towards her room, prodded and poked viciously from behind. With a violent shove she was thrown across the bed. She managed to turn herself round, and look at whoever it was who had forced their way in. Her eyes began to bulge with terror.

  He closed the door silently behind him, and she felt that behind his woollen mask he was smiling. She knew from the way he was holding himself what was about to happen.

  As he started towards her she recoiled back against the bed. “Wh-what do you want?”

  “Hello, Ellamarie.”

  Oh God, how did he know her name?

  He was still walking towards her, very slowly, and suddenly she felt some strength seep back into her body. She twisted herself from the bed, and onto the floor at the other side. He seemed unperturbed, and continued towards her, smooth, milk-white hands dangling at his sides. He reached out to touch her hair. She flinched before he had even touched her and drew away. “No, please. Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I want you, Ellamarie.” His voice was like silk. “I thought you would know that.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  He was standing over her, the toes of his trainer shoes only inches from her knees. She pressed her back against the wall and tried to pull herself up from the floor. He laughed quietly and pushed her back down again. She looked up and her hand flew to her throat as an overwhelming surge of fear almost choked her. He looked grotesque peering down from the shadowed height, the lamp beneath his face. The lamp! Her eyes flew to the dressing table beside her, and without thinking she grabbed at the lamp. But he was too quick for her, and chopped his hand viciously against her arm.

  “That wasn’t very nice, was it?” he said.

  She barely heard him, the pounding of her heart was drowning all other sound. She drew back again, pressing herself into the corner and watching, mesmerised, as his knees moved closer to her face. As she lashed out he caught her by the wrist and twisted her arm painfully.

  “Get up,” he said.

  She lifted her eyes, her whole face quivering with terror. Slowly she shook her head.

  “I said, get up.” The tone of his voice told her that she would be wise to do as he said. She struggled to her feet, never taking her eyes from the terrible mask. She held onto the dressing table.

  “There,” he said softly, pointing to the bed.

  She sobbed and clutched at the neck of her robe. “No.”

  She followed his hand as it sank into his pocket. When he brought it out again he was holding a knife. She tried to scream, but nothing would come. She fell back against the wall, knocking everything from her dressing table and sending it crashing to the floor.

  She began to cry. “Please! Please!” she begged. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t touch me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, sounding surprised that she could even think such a thing. “Just get onto the bed.”

  She stayed where she was, too terrified to move. He pressed a button at the side of the knife and the blade flicked towards her. He held the cold steel against her throat. “I said, onto the bed.”

  She edged round him and towards the bed. Maybe if she just did as he said, he wouldn’t hurt her. But oh God, would he kill her afterwards? Would he just kill her anyway?

  She perched on the edge of the bed. Still holding the knife over her, he pushed her back onto the pillows. He leaned forward and ran his hand across her face and down over her neck. She turned her head away, and immediately realised her mistake. It made him angry. He pushed the knife up against her throat again, and she screwed up her eyes. She could feel the cold blade against her skin, and she waited, paralysed by terror, for him to plunge it into her neck. And then it was gone. She felt him move closer to her, and winced as his foul breath penetrated through the mask. She felt her wrap fall loose; he had cut the belt with his knife.

  She began to whimper as he feasted his eyes on her nearly naked body. And then he was on the bed beside her, with the knife back at her throat. He slipped an arm round her, and tried to pull her close.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Ellamarie,” he murmured. “I want to be nice to you. And I want you to be nice to me. Tell me what turns you on.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing! Please, nothing!”

  “But something must turn you on. How about this?” and he ran a hand over her thighs. “Do you like that? Is that nice?”

  “No! No! Yes!” she shrieked, as he pressed the knife against her throat once more.

  “Do you want to know what turns me on?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You do? Then give me your hand.”

  She tried to push her hands under her body, but he wrenched one of them free, and pushed her balled fist into his groin. “Do you feel that?” he said. “Answer me? Do you feel that?”

  “Yes!”

  “It’s ready for you, Ellamarie. Ready, just for you. And you’re going to do everything it wants you to, aren’t you?” He ran the blade down over her breast, leaving a thin line of blood in its wake. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes.”

  He drew back his hand and hit her face. She screamed out, but he caught her jaw between his fingers. “Shut up!” he hissed. “Now, pull down my zip,” and he thrust his groin towards her.

  Her fingers were shaking so badly that she could hardly take hold of the zipper. He became impatient and hit her again. Then he grabbed the zip himself, and dragged his jeans down over his hips.

  He was like a dead weight on top of her. She lay beneath him, every muscle in her body tensed. He wriggled around, breathing into her face and forcing her legs apart with his own.

  The violation and degradation that followed was complete, and though he didn’t use the knife, he might just as well have done. His sexual appetite was vile, violent and insatiable; again and again he ravished her, hissing vulgar words into her ear. Not even at the height of his salacity did he lose control.

  Tears streamed silently from her eyes, as she stared unseeingly at his discarded jeans, lying in a heap on the floor. She could taste the blood on her lips as her teeth sank into them. His perversion knew no bounds, and as he grabbed her
about the waist and turned her over, she heard herself muttering insanely. And then she screamed. The pain was so intense she almost passed out, but he was determined she should know the full extent of his lust, and gripped her hair in his hands while he pounded his loathsome body into her.

  And then it was over. He fell blubbering onto the pillow beside her, perspiration running from under his mask. She lay still, aware only of the knife that was now lying on the floor beside the bed. If she could only reach it, she could kill him. He was still panting, basking in the waves of satiated lust. It was her only chance. And then, to her horror, as she slowly began to move her hand, he reached out and took her in his arms. He forced her face round to his and, lifting the mask over his mouth, he tried to kiss her. She sank her teeth into his bottom lip. He drew back and glared at her. It was then that she first really noticed his eyes, staring down at her through the slits of the woollen mask. Her heart tightened as the cold fear of recognition hit her. Those pale, cold eyes that had watched her across a crowded room. Those hideous, light grey, eyes, that had studied her every move. The Adonis at Robert Blackwell’s party. Those eyes would live with her for the rest of her life.

  He heaved himself from the bed and looked down at her. She fought against the bile that rose in her throat. As he stopped to pick up his clothes. a sharp pain shot through her arm, but she didn’t look to see what it was. She was hypnotised by his eyes and beyond caring now. All she wanted to do was die.

  “I told you I would wait,” he said, “and I got tired of waiting.”

  She closed her eyes and listened as he dressed himself. When there was only silence she opened them again and peered around the room. She heard the front door slam. He had gone.

  Slowly, shaking all over, she lifted herself carefully from the bed. She hurt so badly it was difficult to move. She saw that there was blood on her arm, and realised that he must have cut her with the knife. Then she saw the blood on her thighs, and on the sheets. She tried to lift the sheets from the bed, but her arms were heavy and bruised. Tears still trickled from her eyes; she felt like a hunted and trapped animal that had lost its final bid for life, exhausted, and only able to whimper now.

  She managed to drag herself into the bathroom. She turned on the hot tap and filled the tub with scalding water.

  The pain was almost unbearable as she lowered her battered body into the steam, but it was the only way. She picked up the nail brush and rubbed soap into it. Then slowly, methodically, she began to scrub her body. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, the feel of his hands would not go away. Her defilement was inside her, as well as outside, and she was afraid she might never be clean again.

  She pulled herself from the tub, and wrapped a towel round her. She lowered her eyes from the mirror, unable to look at herself, as she opened the cupboard above the basin. She took down the bottle of aspirin. Then she went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. It was painful to walk, and her progress was slow. Finally she reached the settee in the lounge and eased herself down onto the cushions.

  Her mouth was dry so she swallowed some water. Then she placed two aspirin on the end of her tongue and drank some more. Then two more, and she drank again . . .

  The shrill sound of the phone woke her. Ellamarie opened her eyes and looked around. She wasn’t curious as to why she was in the lounge. Not for one minute, even while she was asleep, had she forgotten what had happened, what he had done to her. In the cold light of day, it was worse than a nightmare.

  The phone carried on ringing, and she rolled off the settee, onto the floor. She couldn’t stand, her legs were stiff and the pain was still too great, so she crawled over to the telephone and picked it up.

  “Ellamarie?” It was Bob.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Ellamarie? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” she croaked.

  “Are you all right?” He had expected her to be mad at him, and to be raving down the phone. But she sounded half asleep, and he sensed straightaway that something was wrong.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Where were you?” she said, feeling the tears begin again. “Where were you?”

  “I can explain. I’ll come right over.”

  “No! No. Don’t come now.”

  “What? What’s going on over there? Are you all right?”

  “Come later. Don’t come now,” and she hung up.

  She let herself fall back onto the floor, and gazed up at the room around her. Flowers! So many flowers! Flowers from the rapist – the sodomite.

  There were aspirin on the floor beside the settee, and an overturned glass beside them. She must have passed out before she’d been able to take enough of them, else she’d be dead now, and not having to suffer this terrifying, degrading memory.

  From somewhere she managed to find a morsel of energy, and with difficulty pulled herself to her feet. The towel that was wrapped round her body fell to the floor, and she started to panic. She must cover herself. She was filthy, unclean, she must keep herself covered.

  She rolled up some newspapers, put them in the hearth and lit them. One by one, she threw the flowers into the blaze. Then she went into her bedroom. The sight of her bed made her shrink back in terror. But she forced herself to take the sheets from it. She carried them into the sitting room, pulled open a drawer, and took out a pair of scissors. Slowly, laboriously, she cut the sheets to shreds. When that was done she put them on top of the fire, and then sat and watched them burn.

  It did cross her mind to call the police, but what use would that do? He had done it now. He had violated her body, it was done. What good would the police do? Oh yes, they might stop him doing it again, if they caught him. But she didn’t know who he was, not really. And she didn’t want to find out, not ever. And what if it should get out? Did she really want people coming to the theatre or the cinema to see “that actress who was raped”? People would look at her differently if they knew. She was unclean, tarnished. She had been raped.

  Bob came straight round. She was in the tub again when he arrived. But he couldn’t get in. The chain was on the door, and she wouldn’t let him in. She made him go away, and promise not to come back until later. The way she felt now, she didn’t ever want to see another man again as long as she lived. The very thought of one even coming near her made her skin crawl. She had to think. She must make her mind work. But it wouldn’t, so she gave up.

  When Bob came back again he found the chain was off the door. The flat was so quiet he half suspected that she had gone out. But she was sitting beside the fire, staring into the ashes; she didn’t even look up as he came into the room.

  “Hello,” he said, standing in the doorway.

  She didn’t answer.

  He looked around the room, noticing that something was different. Then he realised that all the flowers had gone. He looked at her again, but she was staring into the middle distance and he could sense the tension in her body. “I can explain,” he said, starting towards her.

  “Can you?” she said, not looking up.

  “The meeting went on longer than I expected.”

  “Did it?”

  He knew that she didn’t believe him. His face tightened, and he felt angry with himself. He should have known that we would have to tell her the truth. She wasn’t stupid. She would know that if the meeting really had gone on, then he would have called her, and come home later. But he had never seen her like this before, and he was afraid of telling her what had really happened.

  He went to sit in the chair opposite her, and she was glad that he hadn’t tried to touch her. She didn’t know how she would react. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and tried to look into her face, but her hair was in the way, and she wouldn’t look up. “I suppose I had better come clean.”

  “If you like.”

  “My wife was at the theatre last nig
ht. I’m sorry,” he rushed on, “I had no idea she was coming. She was there when I got back from the meeting with Adrian, so I had to take her away, before you came out of your dressing room.”

  He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. He watched her, and he wanted to reach out and touch her, but there was something about her that made him hold back.

  “I’ve never seen your wife,” she said eventually.

  “No.”

  “What’s she like?”

  Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. He wished she would get angry, shout at him, throw something at him even, anything would be better than this.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Really, I’m sorry. I should have rung, I know I should, and I’m sorry. What else can I say?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  He fell onto his knees beside her, and tried to take her hands.

  She snatched them away. “Don’t touch me!” The hatred and fear in her voice made him pull back. As she leapt to her feet, he saw the bruising on her face. “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “Not ever again,” and she ran out of the room.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Four weeks later, and still Ellamarie was unable to tell anyone what had happened. Instead she withdrew further and deeper into herself so that no matter how hard they tried, neither Jenneen nor Kate could get through to her. Two days after she had run out on him, Bob had flown to Rome to have talks with an Italian film company about the Queen of Cornwall. The meetings were taking longer than he had expected, and he still wasn’t sure when he’d be back. His calls to Ellamarie were frequent, though brief – even at that long distance he could feel her withdrawing from him. But for the moment there was nothing else he could do. She had refused to fly out and join him.

  Kate had rung Ashley, in the hope that she could reach Ellamarie, for some reason Ashley was the one Ellamarie had always seemed to listen to. But even Ashley had had no success; it wasn’t easy on a long-distance telephone call, and Kate knew that it had been a vain hope anyway.