The Fool (17 page)

It didn’t take long for tears to start. The
feeling of complete helplessness, of humiliation. The dark around
her once more became a physical thing that pressed down on her,
swallowed her. She fancied she could taste it as it entered her
mouth, beat against her eyes. She screamed, to force the dark away
from her, to scare it out of her mouth, away from her eyes. The
scream echoed, empty, hollow, fading. The sweat had started to pour
from her again, rancid, slick; coating everything she touched. It
became harder to stay against the door, to keep her folded legs
under her. The more she tried, the more she slid around, the less
hold she had. In a desperate movement to retain her position, she
tried to stand a little, wedge her body harder into the cool frame.
Her feet slid away and she fell, banging her head against the door.
It didn’t hurt that much, but the unexpected motion of meeting
something so hard and unyielding, of slipping again and again, of
getting nowhere: it all took its toll. Before she could stop
herself, before the voice could tell her this wasn’t a smart idea,
she gave up. Lying on the floor, trying to ignore the wet sucking
sounds of her own body, she put her hands over her face and folded
herself in. She didn’t care, she couldn’t care: it was all too
much. All there was were her tears, her terror and the dreadful
stench of herself in the dark. She wasn’t going to play anymore,
she was going home. The crying took her over, her head bowed so her
face touched her knees, her hair plastered over her. She rocked in
the sobbing darkness.

He sat, waiting, listening. He made a bet
with himself: an hour, no longer.

She discovered going away was problematic.
She didn’t know how long she had been rocking, how long she had
been crying, but slowly, and as surely as when she had woken up,
awareness started to reaffirm, force her to take notice of herself.
Once more it started with her back. What had been a deep aching
cramp was now a burning pain, spread up and around from the base of
her spine. Her shoulders were bruised and aching too, adding their
own tones to her back pain. Rocking, it had to be admitted, might
have been comforting in some strange way, but it also hurt. The
floor beneath her was no longer cold, but it was hard, hard and raw
and pressing into her hip bone. Her head was filled with cotton
wool, hard, impacted cotton wool that weighed her down and made her
feel sick. Her face was just as sore, raw and open from the tears
that stung their way endlessly over her skin. A gob of snot trailed
from her nose down her cheek, sliding off into her hair. It was no
good; as soon as she noticed one thing about her body another
brought itself to her attention. She wiped her nose. Her hands
ached, as did her wrists. Her knees felt raw and bruised, the soles
of her feet tender and sore. Her lungs hurt and her throat felt as
if it had been torn out. She was finding breathing difficult, a
situation not helped by her being bent double. It was no good, the
voice was saying, no good at all. She was just going to have to
unfold, stretch out, breathe. She didn’t want to, didn’t want to
admit she was awake, conscious, feeling. But the feeling part was
not open to negotiation, she was feeling entirely too much.

It hurt to move but there was a great sense
of relief, satisfaction, in turning on her back and stretching out.
She realised she had been feeling stuffy and over hot, as moving
back her head and letting in a great gulp of air, a sense of
openness and coolness caressed her mouth and face. There was also a
feeling of dizziness, but it soon passed. Lying there, spread out
on the floor, heat and moisture evaporating off her body, she felt
better, better than she had done. She sucked in the air, grateful
for the release, grateful that there was something nice about the
world. The room around her fell into perfect silence as her
breathing slowed, calmed, became still. She concentrated on that
for a moment, bringing her world down to the tiny regular movement
of air going in, air going out. Air going in, air going out. The
pains faded for a moment as she felt the air coming in, going out.
The voice started up again. Started to think ahead, wonder what was
going to happen, was she going to stand, was she going to sit? How
had she gotten there? She pushed this question aside, it wasn’t to
be looked at. She didn’t know why, but just thinking about it made
her stomach clench, brought an iron band around her lungs making it
difficult to breathe. She searched around for another question,
something easier. The voice accommodated: was she going to lie
there for ever ‘til she died of hunger and thirst? What a dramatic
thought, she mused. To lie here and die of hunger and thirst. The
voice laughed at her, began to talk through the odds of that, given
what was on the other side of the door. This thought galvanised
her, made her sit up too quickly, the dizziness almost overwhelming
her. The other side of the door. He was on the other side of the
door. Shit!

He loved to win bets. That had made three in
a row this evening. He stood, silently moving towards the door. His
hand reached for the switch. Soon, very soon.

CHAPTER FOUR

Her back was once more against the door, her
legs, aching and cramped, brought round in front of her. How could
she have let herself go all floppy, all silly and stupid, to lie
down and cry, hoping she would die from the pain of it? How could
she? The anger burned in her mouth. She was a stupid cow. She was a
complete fool and no matter what she was going to get out of this.
The voice approved, told her that was a good thought, she should
hold on to it. It wasn’t all she needed to hold on to. Sitting up
had released another sensation in her body. Her bladder was
bursting. The dark was once more around her, her body once more
wedged against the door, and the need to go was suddenly with her.
Strong, insistent, as if she had been ignoring it for some time.
Now what was she going to do?

His finger lightly stroked the switch,
pulsing, sensing, judging. Stand up little bird, stand up for
Daddy...

The more she thought on it, the worse it
became. It soon blotted out all but the pain in her back, even her
throat became less demanding than the pressure, the actual physical
pain that was starting to build in her groin. It was absurd to her,
totally surreal, that of all things to concern her, pinned as she
was on the side of that door, she was being driven wild by the need
to pee. Even the voice agreed that this was silly, stupid,
ridiculous. What could they do? She and the voice thought it over.
They both came to the same conclusion, the only sensible conclusion
there was: she should pee. Let it out, get rid of the pain and
concentrate on the door. Sitting up there, in her brain, full
frontal: an idea. It wasn’t an appealing idea. Sensible yes,
appealing, no. She changed her mind, arguing with the voice: it was
a terrible idea? The voice, she discovered, was somewhat of a fair
weather friend: it didn’t answer her back. It had gone away, gone
in the now grinding pressure of holding herself in. It was no good,
she was going to have to move, sitting here on the hard floor
wasn’t helping. She was going to have to stand up, leave the door
alone, and try and work out where she was. She dimly realised that
not wetting herself, crumpled on the floor, in the dark, was more
important to her than holding onto the door. She didn’t understand
it, but there it was. She took a deep breath and scrambled
awkwardly to her feet.

Flick.

She screamed, a small part of her aware that
this was another pathetic action, but the pain once more blotted
all rational thought out. Her eyes once more protested, her hands
flung instinctively to protect them. She would have dropped back
down, but the fear froze her, kept her stranded up there, standing,
caught by the brightness that had pierced her through. Red flooded
her eyes, ghost images once more dancing in front of her, keeping
track as she shook her head to and fro. The crying started, a wail
tearing itself free of her chest. Shit, he was there, he was there!
It was no good. He was there. The smell hit her from underneath:
sharp, acid, pungent. She felt a warm puddle build around her bare
feet: she had wet herself.

The acrid scent flooded under the door.
Urine filled to its limit with toxins. A delightful bonus in a game
already filling him with glee. His hand reached for the handle.

She was stooped over, half way to the floor,
half upright. Her hands were jabbed in her eyes, rubbing, trying to
force them to adjust quickly. She couldn’t be here, she couldn’t be
here, in the middle of nowhere, naked, wet. She just couldn’t. She
couldn’t move; she knew that she needed sight, she needed some
direction. She forced her hands away, forced herself to blink. She
must conquer this, must take charge of her senses.

“I told you not to leave the bed.”

She startled, whirling round, trying to face
where the voice was. A scream was caught fast in her throat; she
would not let it out. She wasn’t going to scream again, not ever.
Her feet slipped in the puddle. As she opened her eyes and tried to
bring her head up, she fell back, back onto the soaking wet floor,
back onto the hardness and the pain. Her shoulder hit something
half way down. Hit it hard. Stars danced around in her eyes, pain
blossoming out from the joint, her head snapping forward. She slid
down on her side, dazed. Too dazed to scrunch up, to hide. She lay
there, sprawled, wedged between something. Something hard, cold, at
her back, something hard and cold in front of her. Naked, apart
from a coat of her own urine and sweat. The small, distant voice
came back: it wasn’t very helpful. She pushed the thoughts down
with some effort. Shame was riding her, riding her harder than the
fear. Her eyesight was clearing, helping her identify where she
was. A toilet bowl was in front of her, a brilliant white sheen
that showed the wreck of her all too clearly. Her arm was
screeching, shouting that she had to move before something got
mashed. She tried to sit up, found she couldn’t. It was a narrow
space, she was sore and slippery. She tried again, her elbow
banging against the cold hard behind her. She slipped back down on
to the floor, defeated.

There was a sharp intake of breath from
somewhere above her, a sigh of impatience. She scrunched her eyes
shut tight, turned her head to the floor, her fists clenching. She
wouldn’t look, she wouldn’t look.

“Allow me to aid you.”

The words didn’t make sense to her, couldn’t
make sense.

“I will not repeat myself. Allow me to help
you.”

There was a tone in those words, an
unmistakable air of menace. It was a threat clear and loud. “Do as
I ask,” his voice had said, “and it will be okay. Fight me, it will
not.” She heard it plainly. Her own inner voice heard it too. Her
voice urged her to get up, to turn round, to do anything rather
than just lie there. She followed the advice.

She couldn’t see him clearly as she first
turned round. The light in the ceiling was behind him, dazzling
her. All she got a sense of was his shape leaning down to her, an
arm clearly extended to her. She reached up for it. His grasp was
strong and firm, pulling her to her feet in one sure movement. Her
body screamed its dislike of the action, her mind screamed louder.
No sound left her lips. She felt proud of that, if nothing else. He
let go of her as soon as he was sure of her footing. She stood,
clumsily, trying to hide herself from him, which was impossible.
Defeated, her arms dropped to her sides, her head down. He had very
shiny shoes. Very expensive shoes. They didn’t look pleased, those
shoes, standing in her piss. A hand reached for her, lifted her
chin up, to stare at him. Their eyes were of almost equal height,
which she found curious. A light brown, flecked with tiny shards of
amber. Dark hair matched his eyes.

“You smell. You smell foul.”

His emphasis on the ‘foul’ made her flush
red. She tried to drop her eyes, her head, away from his piercing
gaze, her hands automatically coming back up, trying to hide, to
cower. He held her firm, forcing her attention.

“Clean yourself and come back through to the
bedroom.” He turned back to the door, opening it, leaving. Before
he disappeared through it, he turned back, addressed her in that no
nonsense voice. “Do not be long.”

The door closed quietly. Tears coursed over
her burning cheeks. As he left the bedroom, aiming for the kitchen,
he started to hum to himself. Gods, what a find. She gave such
great fear. He switched the kettle on and busied himself. He had
plenty of time.

The bathroom was huge; black and white
marble. The floor and walls matched perfectly. White marble flecked
with black on the floor, black marble flecked with white on the
walls. The toilet and bidet, between which she had so recently
rested, were brilliant white. The double vanity unit was gleaming
black stone with equally gleaming white stone sinks. The fixtures
were silver and black. The shower stall alone was bigger than her
bathroom at home. It took up about a quarter of the room, easily
holding about six people. It had a series of shower fixtures up the
walls and across the top. She’d seen the like in movies, never in
real life, not even in hotels at business conventions. The bath was
actually quite small, compared to the rest of the room, but it was
oval rather than bath shaped, with vents along the sides which she
guessed meant it was a jacuzzi. There was a floor to ceiling
cupboard with louver doors in silver. It looked like they were real
silver, at least to touch. The back of her head, the voice, was
screaming that she had to stop looking at the frigging decor and do
something. She ignored it. Looking was doing something, it was
doing about the only thing she could cope with. She’d crumpled down
onto the wet floor when he had left, shaking. When she realised
what she was doing, she had jumped up like a scalded cat. ‘Sides,
she wasn’t getting into no shower ‘til she’d checked what was in
the damned cupboard. The voice told her he wasn’t in the cupboard.
She knew that, she told the voice, she was just being cautious. The
cupboard was filled with towels. Pure white, soft. Looking at them,
touching them, the tears started again, the shaking. No, screamed
the voice. No! No! No! No way. If she fell apart, he was coming
back for her and she didn’t want that. The thought did drive some
of the dreamy feeling from her, did drive her into the shower. It
took a few moments, but she finally got the water out of at least
half the jets, first too hot, then too cold, then okay. There were
plenty of gels and shampoos and such, on a fitted wire shelf right
there in the shower. She stared at them, unthinking. The water ran
off her, down the drain. The first thing she noticed, the only
thing she really noticed, was that the smell was going. The smell
of steam was replacing the smells of... let’s not think about that.
She’d never thought that steam had a smell, that it smelt clean,
warm, friendly. Her hair was flattened down onto her scalp, the
water running off it over her shoulders. She tried to run her hands
through it, it was matted, sticky. The water was making it wetter,
not cleaner. She reached for the shampoo.