As I dry myself I think of the animal documentaries I’ve seen. Dad says they’re only ever about feeding, fighting and fucking, with a birth and a death thrown in now and then to complete the cycle. And I think of the episodes in which the dominant male wanted to mate with one of his females; he always wooed her, quite harshly sometimes – chasing and biting her and knocking her down – but he never mated till she was ready and presented herself and accepted him.
Is Cal like that? Or is he determined to have me whether I want him or not? Is he just an animal or is he that human evil, a rapist?
My instinct tells me to play the animal game for as long as I can, but that in the end he’ll have me, whether I want him or not. The only questions are, how long have I got, and can I escape before he turns nasty?
As soon as we’re inside, I rush to the bed and wrap myself in the duvet. Not only to get warm, but also to hide myself, hide my body from his eyes. That the duvet is smelly and grubby no longer matters. He’s behaving like an animal and he’s forcing me to behave like one as well.
>> Pretending >>
Piano
The first time I saw a piano, Dad tells me, I wanted to play it. Apparently, I used to bang on the keys as soon as I could reach them. Doris started teaching me even before I could read. Later, they tried me on other instruments, but I took to none of them. When I tried a cello, I couldn’t press the strings hard enough and the sound I produced was like a succession of very dry farts. My attempt at the violin simulated the screams of a demented hyena and sent everyone fleeing from the room. As far as I was concerned the clarinet was a tube full of dangerous holes. As for drums, playing them is a version of warfare and I’m a conscientious objector. Perhaps everyone has one instrument that’s right for them and mine is the piano. As soon as my fingers touch the keys I feel at home. Just like I feel at home as soon as I open a book.
I love the piano because it’s an orchestra in itself. No other instrument can do on its own anything like the piano in range and complexity and variety of tones and sounds. Well, all right, I’m biased. But to me it’s true that the piano is the supreme instrument, requiring the greatest skill and talent, the greatest discipline and devotion if it is to be played really well (and I mean an acoustic piano, not one of those electronic keyboards, however much they are dressed up to look like a proper piano).
Poetry
Poetry is the music of the mind.
For some reason I do not understand, poetry is my only vocation.
I wish I could write it well.
But I’m comforted by the words of Mr G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936): If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing badly.
Pretending
‘Better?’ Cal asks. He’s watching me from the middle of the room like a dog that wants to play.
I’m not, but mustn’t say that. Mustn’t admit I’m cold and frightened and confused.
‘A bit,’ I say, attempting a smile that feels like a wound.
How to keep him busy, thinking of something other than getting into bed with me?
I’m not hungry, but I am hungry. Eating as comfort. Eating as escape. Eating as a way of keeping him from me.
Does mate-guarding include mate-feeding? Or does the mate feed the guard? The status of who feeds whom.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I ask.
‘Nar,’ he says, meaning, I can see in his eyes, yes but not for food.
‘Well, I am. I’ve had nothing since breakfast.’
‘Yes you have. You had something when you stopped and something after you’d climbed the tree.’
O, god!
‘Yes, I did. I’m so hungry I forgot. How d’you know?’
As if I can’t guess.
‘Watching, wasn’t I. With my binnies.’
‘Your binnies?’
‘Yeah.’ He leers. ‘Bird watching.’
‘All the time?’
‘Days.’
‘Days?’
‘For a chance.’
‘A chance for what?’
‘Be with you. By ourselves.’
Panic in my stomach.
Pretend. I’ve got to pretend.
‘They were just snacks,’ I say. ‘To keep me going. But now I’m really hungry. I mean really really hungry. Honest, Cal, if I don’t have a proper meal soon, I’ll be no use for anything. I’ll faint or something. I’m not strong like you. I have to eat often. Regularly.’
He chews it over in his mind.
‘I’ll cook,’ I say a touch too eagerly. ‘I’ll get dressed and make us a nice meal. I’m good at cooking.’
‘Yeah, I know. Only, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Nothing here.’
O, god, please please help me!
‘So how do you? I mean, on your own?’
‘Chippy. Macs. Pizza. Whatever.’
A possibility. He’ll have to go. A chance.
‘That’ll do. That’ll be fine. I’ll pay. There’s some money in my bag. Shall I get it?’ (And my mobile.)
‘Nar. My treat. I’m looking after you this time.’
He comes to me, coiling the rope.
He kisses me like a husband off on an errand. I want to wipe him from my lips, but make myself smile again.
But instead of turning away, he ties the rope round me again and again, till I’m trussed up like a mummy, swaddled in the duvet, chest to feet, finally lashing the end of the rope to a ring that’s bolted into the wall above the bed so that I can’t even roll off onto the floor.
He stands back to view his handiwork.
‘What d’you want?’ he says. ‘Macs is the nearest.’
I can’t speak.
‘Double big Mac with double fries and a large Coke?’
I can’t even nod my head. The thought of it makes me want to vomit but I can’t because I’m rigid with panic.
‘We’ll have the nosh, and then a nice long fuck,’ he says as if talking of a quiet evening at home. ‘You’ll feel great then. I know I’m not clever like you, but I’m a really good fuck. That I do know. You’ll not be disappointed. You just lie there and get yourself in the mood.’
By now there’s only the faintest gloom coming through the high window.
‘Can you put a light on?’ I ask.
‘Why, what d’you want to look at?’
‘Just for some light. It’ll be dark soon. While you’re out.’
‘There isn’t any. Got a torch in the car. Bring it in when I get back.’
He picks the gag off the floor, stuffs it into my mouth, and fastens it behind my head. It’s covered in dust and grit and dries my mouth instantly. Ashes of fear.
During the time Cal is away I plunge into the deepest despair I’ve felt in my life so far. I wish I could die, I wish I could kill myself before he returns, bearing his gifts of junk food and poisoned love. I wish I could kill him.
>> Quandary >>
Quandary
I don’t know how long Cal is gone. Too long, because I fear he might never come back and I’ll be left here for days and never found till I die of cold and starvation. Too short, because I fear what he’ll do when we’ve eaten.
It’s dark now. Thick darkness.
I know I should think, I should plan, but my mind is in turmoil. How can you think straight when your feelings are tortured?
Lying bound and gagged in the dark I hear rustlings on the floor. Rats? Mice? Will they get on the bed? I picture them gnawing my face. I wriggle and thrash about, to try and scare them away. When I lie still there’s silence, but after a while the skittering begins again. More wriggling and thrashing.
Instead of shivering from the cold, now I’m sweating from the heat my fear has stoked inside the duvet.
Then a miracle happens. And it does seem like a miracle. The moon appears, framed in the high window, veiled at first by thinning cloud, brightening as the cloud vanishes, its aqua light livening the barn.
The rustling stops.
Swe
et Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;
I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright.
My fears cool, as if a friend is stroking my face.
I lie still and relax. Will comes to mind. I think of the times we’ve slept together outside, wrapped round each other, under the moon. I remember Izumi, and her love of the moon and the Japanese poems about the moon she knew by heart and recited to me. I remember this one by our favourite poet, Izumi Shikibu:
On such a night
when the moon
shines brightly like this
the unspoken thoughts
of even the most secret heart can be seen.
And the last poem Izumi Shikibu wrote on her deathbed, which makes more sense to me at this moment than before:
The way I must enter
leads through darkness to darkness –
watchful moon above the mountain top,
please shine a little further
on my path.
Encouraged, I compose a mope of my own, dedicating it to Will:
While I snatch the dark
moon breasts
the falling sky
under which you
sleep unaware.
The saving power of poetry. I feel calmer now, feel also I’ve come to a decision, but don’t know what it is, only that deep inside me there is a core, a calm centre unaffected by my troubles, which has decided what I must do, but will only tell me what when the time comes.
As I realise this, the beams of Cal’s headlights bob and slash in the window, cutting through the moonlight, as his van bounces along the rutted lane.
Cal comes in, carrying in one hand a halogen camper’s lamp that sears the barn with acid light, and the food in a bag in the other, sickening the air with a greasy smell. The light hurts my eyes, the stench turns my stomach.
He puts the bag down on the table, hooks the lamp to a chain hanging from a beam in the middle of the barn, comes to me, and removes the gag. I drag air in through my mouth like a swimmer coming to the surface and swallow hard, but too much, too hard, which makes me cough and splutter and my eyes water. He unties the rope from the ring on the wall and unbinds me. It’s such a relief to be free that I immediately sit up and perch on the edge of the bed, breathing deeply, but cloak the duvet round me to shield my body.
Cal returns to the table and unpacks the food. I know I won’t be able to eat anything; I’ll vomit if I try.
He comes to me again, offering a carton of burger and fries. The stench is an assault. I shake my head and can’t help cringing away.
‘No?’ he says.
I shake my head again.
‘Thought you was hungry?’
I huddle into myself.
He huffs and shrugs and goes back to the table, where he stands, eating and drinking, chewing loudly with his mouth open. He looks at me all the time.
I know from the way he’s ogling me there’s no hope of distracting him any longer. When he’s finished scoffing he’ll do what he’s intended to do all along. How could I have thought he wanted anything else?
My mouth tastes vile. My stomach hurts from being clenched tight for so long. My body is tense but floppy. I feel so weak I don’t think I can stand.
I lower my head and go inside myself and divide into two: the one sitting on the bed who Cal is leering at and wants and is not me; and the one who is not on the bed, who he cannot reach or hurt and is me. Whatever he does to the one on the bed will have nothing to do with the real me.
He finishes eating, wipes his hands on his jeans, and comes to me again. He stands in front of me, staring. Then reaches out and pushes the duvet off my shoulders, baring me to the waist. I hold the duvet tight across my lap.
He strokes my shoulders. His hands are sticky and rough and hot and stink of burger. He bends over me, unhooks my bra and takes it off. My arms resist but he pushes them aside. He stuffs my bra into a pocket of his jeans and stares at my breasts.
He reaches out and fingers the nipples.
‘Stand,’ he says.
I can’t move.
He takes me under the arms and lifts me up. The duvet falls to the ground. He takes his hands away. My legs buckle. He lets me slump back onto the bed. I cross my arms over my breasts.
He grips the top of my briefs and drags them off, puts them to his face and smells the crotch, inhaling deeply, his eyes closed. When he’s had enough, he puts them in the other pocket of his jeans. He’s smirking with pleasure.
He kneels down, pushes my knees apart, puts his head between my legs, and licks.
I turn my head and look through the window. The moon is still there but crossed now by clouds. I remember the poem Izumi wrote in the anthology she gave me the day we became friends. I recite it to myself.
An ocean of clouds
rolls in waves across the sky,
carrying the moon
like a boat that disappears
into a thicket of stars.
Without stopping his tongue, Cal reaches for my hands and places them on his head. He wants me to stroke his hair. But my hands are frozen into claws.
I’m numb. My mind is blank. My eyes hold onto the moon, riding the clouds.
Time means nothing any more.
Cal stands. I hear him undressing, tearing off his boots, thump thump, and his clothes.
He takes my head in his hands and turns it to face him. His erect penis is a breath away.
‘Open,’ he says.
I can’t.
‘Open your fucking mouth.’
I won’t.
He presses the tip of his engorged penis against my clamped lips. Draws it back and presses it again, harder. And again.
‘Suck me.’
I turn my eyes to look up at his. I find only now that I’m weeping. But I am not weeping, because the one who is weeping is not me. I am not here.
He takes a step back.
His penis shrivels.
He’s surprised. Takes hold of it. Looks at it, disbelieving. Tries to make it grow again with his hand. But it won’t. He looks desperate.
‘Lie down.’
I don’t move.
He puts his hands under my knees and lifts them so that I’m forced to lie on my back with my bent legs in the air.
He tries to enter me but can’t. His penis remains slack. He attempts to rouse it with his hand while holding my breast with the other hand. But fails.
He pushes my legs down, pulls me to a sitting position again, stands close, and says, ‘You do it.’
I can’t move.
He takes my right hand and holds it around his penis.
Nothing happens.
‘Shag me,’ he says.
I’m still weeping, without making a sound.
He wraps his hand over mine and masturbates. But his penis doesn’t respond.
He releases my hand and stands back. I see the frustration gathering in him till it breaks out in a tortured howl, like an animal in pain.
He turns from me and rushes about, laying hands on anything he can, throwing it at the wall. He overturns the table, his naked body a whirl of anger, before returning to me when he can find nothing else to assault, panting, wild-eyed.
I expect him to attack me now, but he doesn’t. He stops in front of me, his hands clasped behind his head, and yells, ‘Help me! Why won’t you help me? I love you. Help me!’
He isn’t ordering, but pleading.
Now I know what it is that the calm core of me has decided. I know what I must do.
>> Rescue >>
Question
Everything.
Reading
I live to read.
Rescue
While I’m cycling to the tree, Arry wakes and senses at once that something is wrong. The sounds of the day aren’t right, the house is too quiet. He checks his watch. Ten forty-five. He goes downstairs and finds a note from Doris on the kitchen table: We’re shopping. Cordelia’s gone for a cycle ride.
The n
ote reassures him. He puts his unease down to a minor hangover and an incident that’s still upsetting him. As he left home last night he came across Cal sitting in his van parked a few doors down from our house. Cal said he’d just arrived, on his way to ask Arry out for a drink. Arry explained that he was meeting some of his gay friends. Cal drove him there. On the way Arry teased Cal, saying he wasn’t really coming for Arry but to see me, because he knew Cal fancied me. Cal said no, it was Arry he’d come for, but, yes, he’d quite like a chance with me. Arry said he didn’t have a hope because I was way out of Cal’s class. Why would I want a great baboon like Cal when I could have the pick of the pack from school? Cal didn’t think this funny and took the huff. Arry tried to josh him out of it, saying he was just pulling Cal’s leg. But he realised then that Cal had something more serious than just the hots for me. To try and placate him, Arry invited Cal to join him and his friends, but Cal said he hated poofs, they were only queer because they couldn’t get it up with a woman, they were losers, weaklings, crap merchants. Me as well? Arry asked, trying to make light of it. You more than any of them, Cal snarled. Poor Cal, he’s lovesick and frustrated, Arry thought, trying to pass the insult off as nothing worse than a bad-tempered outburst. But he was upset by it, and the bad feeling lingered through a randy evening with his friends and after he got home about four, and woke with him in the morning.
Doris and Dad return from shopping. Arry helps them stow things away, and helps Dad repair a broken cupboard door. They have our usual Saturday lunch: fresh bread, cheese, tomatoes and dates, with a glass of beer or wine. In the afternoon he does his week’s laundry, listens to music, reads his book about Joshua Slocum’s voyage alone around the world, and falls asleep.
He wakes at six feeling uneasy again. He listens, expecting to hear me in my room. Nothing. He knocks three times on the wall. No reply. He goes downstairs. Dad’s in the sitting room, working on his laptop. Doris is in the kitchen, preparing the supper.
He asks Doris if I’m back yet. She says no. Shouldn’t I be, it’s after dark? Probably gone to Julie’s, Doris says. You know how they are, they’ll have got talking and forgotten the time.