A string of imprecations, see-sawing, lilting, comforting, persuading; a one-sided conversation, Bliss following his own perverse loop of logic.
She bent her attention forward, reaching out under his ramblings — searching through the layers of sound to sense the dimensions and temperatures of the room. They weren't in the flat any more. She knew that from the change in air, from the acoustics. It was quiet here. Only birdsong outside. No trains, no cars, no inner city rumbling. As peaceful as a childhood bedroom. So the suburbs, then? Or the country? They could be miles from any other houses; and no-one knew she was here—
The rambling stopped. Rebecca held her breath and listened hard. When she was sure Bliss had left the room, she opened her eyes and let her breath out.
The room was dim — about the size she had pictured. Sunlight traced the patterns on the closed curtains, large cabbage roses, birds, peacock plumes. Beyond swinging saloon doors, a darkened kitchen. In the foreground, less than two yards from where she lay, six pale pink Lloyd Loom chairs were pulled up neatly next to a bamboo and glass table, on which had been arranged paper plates, a bottle of cherry brandy, party hats, a half-eaten birthday cake. Overhead, whispering and shivering like a crowd of fascinated onlookers — scores of balloons. Posy pink, lavender and sun yellow, jostling for space on the ceiling, tails lifting lazily in the cool air, and Joni — what was left of Joni — propped in one of the wicker chairs. Taped upright with the packing tape, but dead.
Dead? She must be dead — looking like that she must be—
Bliss appeared from the kitchen, naked and obscene.
Rebecca froze — caught with her eyes wide open. But he wasn't looking at her. Instead he crossed to Joni, humming to himself, lightly fingering his small, leaking penis, cherry red against the soft white thighs. He paused at the table, swigging from the brandy and watching Joni thoughtfully. Then he wiped his mouth, put the bottle down and in one swift move — agile in spite of his build — levered himself onto the table, knelt in front of Joni, caught the back of her head and fed himself into her mouth.
Rebecca lay appalled, paralysed. Compelled to watch as Bliss worked, pounding at Joni's face, driving himself harder and harder into her.
See? He's not human, you can't reason with him.
Joni retched violently under the assault: her throat convulsed, spasms shuddered across her abdomen as if her muscles were unlatched from their neural system, but still he worked on, squealing softly to himself, his eyes turned inwards with lust. When he was finished he withdrew slowly from Joni's mouth, pausing a moment to rest her face in his soft fingers and look into her eyes. Then, nodding to himself, he gently lowered her chin onto her chest, crawled off the table and left the room.
Rebecca didn't move. She lay quite still for several moments.
Then: 'Joni?' she whispered.
Silence. Joni sat in profile, naked and bruised, her head dropped forward onto her chest. On the table had been placed a slice of untouched birthday cake and a champagne flute. A small paper party napkin was spread on her lap and her hair had been cut into a fringe. Beneath it, where there should have been the natural dips and curves of eye, cheek and forehead, stretched a tender, dappled blood-bladder.
'Joni?' Rebecca shuffled forward a few painful inches. 'Joni?'
Joni rolled her head sideways. For a moment she seemed not to recognize Rebecca, then her tongue flickered.
'Please—' Her voice was thready, less than a whisper. A tear appeared in her healthy eye. 'Please don't watch.'
'It's OK.' Rebecca licked her lips and hiked herself up on her elbow, wincing at the pain in her head and neck. 'It's OK.'
She tried to feel for the end of the tape to free her legs, but Bliss had been clever with the neat little tape mittens he'd made for her — when she tore at them with her teeth they only grew tighter. She dropped her hands, panting.
There has to be something — come on, Becky — there's a way out of this; everything's there, right there waiting. Think—
Carefully recording any object of use: next to a gas fire a silver-plated carousel holding fire tongs, poker, a miniature shovel — on the formica surface of the kitchen, pushed up in the shadows next to the curtained window, a neat wooden knife block. And on the table? She couldn't see properly from this angle. But knives — have to be some knives, even a fork. Could be to the table and back in twenty seconds. You'd hear him returning.
A deep breath and she rolled onto her front, balling her face at the pain and nausea. She slammed her hands down on the floor and shuffled her lower body around. A sudden picture of herself, eyes swollen, half naked, broken and bloodied, dragging herself along the floor like a dog crippled by a car: she clenched her teeth, wouldn't entertain the image. The table was only a yard away — she was nearly there. She dragged her legs forward and—
A toilet flushed somewhere. A door closed.
Rebecca froze — heart thumping, eyes wide.
Wendy Dellaney considered herself a loyal person. She was proud of St Dunstan's reputation. Proud to be a part of it. And furious, just furious that Malcolm Bliss had brought more shame to them. She sat at her desk, staring at Malcolm's files shivering, sipping her tea and taking deep breaths. 'I've a good mind to—' She picked up the phone.
'Wendy?' Lola Velinor's head snapped up. 'What are you doing?'
'I'm going to tell him exactly what I think of him. He's a dirty, dirty nasty little man—'
'No no no.' Lola stood and gently removed the receiver from her fingers. 'Don't interfere. You don't know how serious it is. Let the police deal with it.'
Wendy, with her scared little pin-prick eyes, shrank back into the corner, trying to disappear inside her Nightingale print dress. Ten minutes later, when Velinor left to meet the hospital registrar, inform him of the police visit, the incident had been forgotten. Wendy waited till the door closed, then reached for the phone.
51
Bliss stood over her. Looking at her curiously as if she were a small snail he had found crawling across his living-room floor.
'Awake?' he murmured lightly.
'She's dying.' Rebecca tried to bend her legs up, get some leverage, but the tape dug into her flesh, cutting the blood supply. She gave up and dropped back, panting. 'If you don't stop you'll kill her.'
'Yes.' Bliss picked thoughtfully at the inside of his nostril. 'Yes.' He put his hand on his knees and bent in to get a better view of Joni, her head lolling limply against her chest. Then, nodding to himself, he straightened.
'Yes,' he said wiping his hands on his fat thighs. 'You're right. Now you. You want it again?'
Shaky, in pain, she held her hand up. 'Don't touch me.'
'Too late. I already have.'
'You're lying.'
'No,' he said pleasantly. 'After I splattered you all over my kitchen I fucked what was left. You were unconscious.'
Not true.
'Look.' He pressed the tip of his penis, wet and distended, between his fingers and smiled. 'See? I'm ready. I'll cut your tape off and then you can open your legs for me.'
'They know I'm with you. I called them before I came to your flat — told them where I was going. They're on the way.'
'Shut up.'
'It's true.' Her voice trembled but she kept her head up. 'First they'll telephone and then they'll arrive at the door.'
'I said shut up.' He rolled his tongue around his mouth. 'Now lie down quietly and—'