Fragments (26 page)

“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.

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.