Fragments (25 page)

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.

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.