O’Byrne lay back. From the corner a man sang of love in a restaurant with clean white tablecloths. Lucy brought an icy bottle of white wine. She sat on the arm of his chair and they drank and talked. Lucy told him recent stories of the ward, of nurses who fell in and out of love, patients who recovered or died. As she spoke she undid the top buttons of his shirt and pushed her hand down to his belly. And when O’Byrne turned in his chair and reached up for her she pushed him away, leaned down and kissed him on the nose. “Now, now,” she said primly. O’Byrne exerted himself. He recounted anecdotes he had heard in the pub. Lucy laughed crazily at the end of each, and as he was beginning the third she let her hand drop lightly between his legs and rest there. O’Byrne closed his eyes. The hand was gone and Lucy was nudging him. “Go on,” she said. “It was getting interesting.” He caught her wrist and wanted to pull her onto his lap. With a little sigh she slipped away and returned with a second bottle. “We should have wine more often,” she said, “if it makes you tell such funny stories.”
Encouraged, O’Byrne told his story, something about a car and what a garage mechanic said to a vicar. Once again Lucy was fishing around his fly and laughing, laughing. It was a funnier story than he thought. The floor rose and fell beneath his feet. And Lucy so beautiful, scented, warm… her eyes glowed. He was paralyzed by her teasing. He loved her, and she laughed and robbed him of his will. Now he saw, he had come to live with her, and each night she teased him to the edge of madness. He pressed his face into her breasts. “I love you,” he mumbled, and again Lucy was laughing, shaking, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Do you… do you…” she kept trying to say. She emptied the bottle into his glass. “Here’s a toast…” “Yeah,” said O’Byrne. “To us.” Lucy was holding down her laughter. “No, no,” she squealed. “To you.” “All right,” he said, and downed his wine in one swallow. Then Lucy was standing in front of him pulling his arm. “C’mon,” she said. “C’mon.” O’Byrne struggled out of the chair. “What about dinner, then?” he said. “You’re the dinner,” she said, and they giggled as they tottered towards the bedroom.
As they undressed Lucy said, “I’ve got a special little surprise for you so… no fuss.” O’Byrne sat on the edge of Lucy’s large bed and shivered. “I’m ready for anything,” he said. “Good… good,” and for the first time she kissed him deeply, and pushed him gently backwards onto the bed. She climbed forward and sat astride his chest. O’Byrne closed his eyes. Months ago he would have resisted furiously. Lucy lifted his left hand to her mouth and kissed each finger. “Hmmm… the first course.” O’Byrne laughed. The bed and the room undulated softly about him. Lucy was pushing his hand towards the top corner of the bed. O’Byrne heard a distant jingle, like bells. Lucy knelt by his shoulder, holding down his wrist, buckling it to a leather strap. She had always said she would tie him up one day and fuck him. She bent low over his face and they kissed again. She was licking his eyes and whispering, “You’re not going anywhere.” O’Byrne gasped for air. He could not move his face to smile. Now she was tugging at his right arm, pulling it, stretching it to the far corner of the bed. With a dread thrill of compliance O’Byrne felt his arm die. Now that was secure and Lucy was running her hands along the inside of his thigh, and on down to his feet… He lay stretched almost to breaking, splitting, fixed to each corner, spread out against the white sheet. Lucy knelt at the apex of his legs. She stared down at him with a faint, objective smile, and fingered herself delicately. O’Byrne lay waiting for her to settle on him like a vast white nesting bird. She was tracing with the tip of one finger the curve of his excitement, and then with thumb and forefinger making a tight ring about its base. A sigh fled between his teeth. Lucy leaned forwards. Her eyes were wild. She whispered, “We’re going to get you, me and Pauline are…”
Pauline. For an instant, syllables hollow of meaning. “What?” said O’Byrne, and as he spoke the word he remembered, and understood a threat. “Untie me,” he said quickly. But Lucy’s finger curled under her crotch and her eyes half closed. Her breathing was slow and deep. “Untie me,” he shouted, and struggled hopelessly with his straps. Lucy’s breath came now in light little gasps. As he struggled, so they accelerated. She was saying something… moaning something. What was she saying? He could not hear. “Lucy,” he said, “please untie me.” Suddenly she was silent, her eyes wide open and clear. She climbed off the bed. “Your friend Pauline will be here, soon,” she said, and began to get dressed. She was different, her movements brisk and efficient, she no longer looked at him. O’Byrne tried to sound casual. His voice was a little high. “What’s going on?” Lucy stood at the foot of the bed buttoning her dress. Her lip curled. “You’re a bastard,” she said. The doorbell rang and she smiled. “Now that’s good timing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, he went down very quietly,” Lucy was saying as she showed Pauline into the bedroom. Pauline said nothing. She avoided looking at either O’Byrne or Lucy. And O’Byrne’s eyes were fixed on the object she carried in her arms. It was large and silver, like an outsized electric toaster. “It can plug in just here,” said Lucy. Pauline set it down on the bedside table. Lucy sat down at her dressing table and began to comb her hair. “I’ll get some water for it in a minute,” she said.
Pauline went and stood by the window. There was silence. Then O’Byrne said hoarsely, “What’s that thing?” Lucy turned in her seat. “It’s a sterilizer,” she said breezily. “Sterilizer?” “You know, for sterilizing surgical instruments.” The next question O’Byrne did not dare ask. He felt sick and dizzy. Lucy left the room. Pauline continued to stare out the window into the dark. O’Byrne felt the need to whisper. “Hey, Pauline, what’s going on?” She turned to face him, and said nothing. O’Byrne discovered that the strap around his right wrist was slackening a little, the leather was stretching. His hand was concealed by pillows. He worked it backwards and forwards, and spoke urgently. “Look, let’s get out of here. Undo these things.”
For a moment she hesitated, then she walked around the side of the bed and stared down at him. She shook her head. “We’re going to get you.” The repetition terrified him. He thrashed from side to side. “It’s not my idea of a fucking joke!” he shouted. Pauline turned away. “I hate you,” he heard her say. The right-hand strap gave a little more. “I hate you. I hate you.” He pulled till he thought his arm would break. His hand was too large still for the noose around his wrist. He gave up.
Now Lucy was at the bedside pouring water into the sterilizer. “This is a sick joke,” said O’Byrne. Lucy lifted a flat black case onto the table. She snapped it open and began to take out long-handled scissors, scalpels and other bright, tapering silver objects. She lowered them carefully into the water. O’Byrne started to work his right hand again. Lucy removed the black case and set on the table two white kidney bowls with blue rims. In one lay two hypodermic needles, one large, one small. In the other was cotton wool. O’Byrne’s voice shook. “What is all this?” Lucy rested her cool hand on his forehead. She enunciated with precision. “This is what they should have done for you at the clinic.” “The clinic…?” he echoed. He could see now that Pauline was leaning against the wall drinking from a bottle of scotch. “Yes,” said Lucy, reaching down to take his pulse. “Stop you spreading round your secret little diseases.” “And telling lies,” said Pauline, her voice strained with indignation.