The Fool (16 page)

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.

“No.”

The sound of his voice went off beside her
like a bomb. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t spoken at more than a
whisper, but it ruptured her illusion of safety, of the possibility
of escape. She stared at him.

“Do not leave the bed.”

She saw the lips move, heard the words, but
still he was so completely empty, so completely dead. For a moment
she doubted herself, doubted he had spoken. What if it was her?
What if she was making him up, had imagined his presence, never
mind his voice? The thought scalded her, stole away what little
composure she had. Without thought of it, she was up and off,
heading for the doorway. Away, away, that was all she could think
of. Away.

She tripped on the sheet that was wrapped
round her, fell heavily onto the cool floor, found almost no
purchase in it. A scrabble, a frantic scrabble, as she desperately
tried to make the doorway just ahead of her. She kicked the sheet
away, bare feet slipping and sliding on the surface of the bedroom.
The darkness was really just ahead of her, the doorway was there,
just there. With a push, she was over the threshold, scrabbling
round on all fours, scooting through. The darkness was complete,
she could see nothing once more, feel only the cold slickness
underneath her. She tried to stand, found the door to her right,
found the door handle. On her knees she rose and slammed the door
shut, shutting out the light, shutting out Him. The silence crashed
around her again, the darkness. The sound of rasping laboured
breath. She put her thoughts away from her, to one side, and
concentrated on the door. A door handle, maybe there was a lock, a
key? In the dark she searched, her hands sodden with sweat once
more. Nothing, she found nothing. Substituting her body for a lock,
she turned around, slamming her back against the door, grimacing at
the pain it caused. Sliding down, ignoring more pain, she landed on
her bum and pushed. All she was she put into pushing against that
door, feet barely gaining hold on the cold floor. She’d gone from a
sheet between them, to a solid wooden door: she wasn’t giving it
up. As she pushed, feet endlessly slipping on the floor, a thought
did occur to her. It was the little voice again, the tiny echo
somewhere in the back of her mind, the one that kept making
suggestions, good, bad, fucking dangerous. You’re not being chased,
it said. Nothing has come after you. She listened to it despite
herself. All she wanted to do was concentrate on that wonderful
solid door, and relish that she couldn’t see Him. No, that he
couldn’t see her! She was this side, he was the other: it was going
to stay that way. But the voice still niggled, still murmured,
still sought to betray her jubilation. There was no one following
her. There was no weight being pushed against the door. Nothing. It
sank in, slowly, as the darkness around her did. She’d made the
door because she hadn’t been chased: no one was after her. This
thought slithered in as she continued to press against the door,
continued to fight and slip and slide and desperately scrabble for
support, something to hold onto to help her block Him out. No one
was after her. It was just her, and the dark, and her rasping,
echoing breath, and not knowing where the hell she was. Again.