And I watched myself blindly in the darkness. How can the brain know that it is failing, the mind feel itself disintegrate? Is that what it is like to go mad? Is there a period of time when you know, with the bit of you that is going mad, that you're going mad? When do you give up and, with a ghastly kind of relief, let yourself fall into the abyss? I imagined a pair of hands gripping on to a ledge, hanging on, and then very slowly the fingers relax, uncurl. You fall through space and nothing can stop you.
The letter. Dear anyone, help me, help me, help me, I can't do it any more. Please. Oh, Jesus, please.
My eyes stung and prickled. My throat was sore, sorer than usual, I mean. As if there were bits of grit in it. Or glass. Maybe I was getting a cold. Then I would gradually stop being able to breathe. All blocked up.
"Drink."
I drank. Just a few sips this time.
"Eat."
Four spoonfuls of mush. I could barely swallow.
"Bucket."
I was lifted down, lifted back up. I felt like a rubbishy plastic doll. For a brief moment, I thought about writhing and kicking, but I knew he could squeeze the life out of me. I felt his hands holding me around my ribcage. He could snap me.
"Noose."
"Piece of shit," I said.
"What?"
"You. Rubbish. Piece of shit."
He hit me in the mouth. I could taste my blood. Sweet, metallic.
"Garbage," I said.
He stuffed the gag into my mouth.
Five hours perhaps, and some minutes. How many was it last time I counted? I couldn't remember any more. Then he'd come back. Perhaps he would be carrying a piece of paper and a pen. Outside, it must be dark now; probably it had been dark for hours. Perhaps there was a moon, stars. I imagined pricks of light in the black sky.
Here I was, alone inside my hood, inside my head. Here I was and nothing else seemed real any more. At first, I had not let myself think of life beyond this room, of ordinary life as it had been. I had thought that would be a way of taunting myself and going mad. Now that I wanted to remember things, I couldn't, or not properly. It was as if the sun had gone in and a storm was brewing and night was coming. It was coming.
I tried to put myself in the flat, but I couldn't. I tried to see myself at work, but I couldn't. Memories lay in gathering darkness. I remembered this, though: I remembered swimming in a loch in Scotland, I couldn't recall when, years ago, and the water was so brackish and murky that you couldn't see through it. I couldn't even see my hands clearly when I stretched them out in front of me. But when I did the crawl, I could see silver bubbles of air in the dark water. Cascading bubbles of silver air.
Why do I remember that when other memories were shutting down? The lights were going out, one by one. Soon there would be nothing left. Then he would have won.
I knew what I was going to do. I wasn't going to write any letter. I wasn't going to wait for him to come into the room with his piece of paper. It was the only power I had left. The power of not waiting for him to kill me. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. No memory, no hope. Just that. And it was perfectly simple, really. If I went on sitting here, sooner or later and probably sooner, tomorrow or the next day, I could sense the moment was near he would murder me. Any doubt of that had gone. I was quite sure that he had murdered the other women and he would do the same to me. I wasn't going to outwit him. I wasn't going to escape when he lifted me down. I wasn't going to persuade him that he should set me free after all. The police weren't going to burst into the room and rescue me. Terry wasn't going to come. Nobody was. I wasn't going to wake up one morning and discover it had all been a nightmare. I was going to die.
I told myself this at last. If I waited, he would kill me, as sure as anything was sure. I felt no hope at all. My pitiful attempts to change that had been like hurling myself against a solid wall. But if I threw myself off this ledge, the noose would hang me. That's what he had told me, and I could feel the wire round my neck if I leant forward. He must have known that I wouldn't try. Nobody in their right mind would kill themselves in order not to die.
Yet that is exactly what I was going to do. Throw myself off. Because it was the only thing left I could do. My last chance to be Abbie.
And I didn't have much time. I would have to do it before he came back, while I still could. While I had the will.
I breathed in and held my breath. Why not now, before I lost courage? I breathed out again. Because it's impossible to do it, that's why. You think: Just one more second of life. One more minute. Not now. Any time that isn't now.
And if you jump, then you're saying no more breath and no more thought; no more sleeping and knowing you'll wake, no more fear, no more hope. So, of course, you hold off, like when you climb up to the high diving board and all the time you think you can do it until you reach the top step and walk along the springy platform and look down at the turquoise water and it all seems so horribly far away and you know you can't, after all. Can't. Because it is impossible.
But then you do. Almost without knowing in advance, while in your mind you are turning round and heading back to safety, you step off and you're falling. No more waiting. No more terror. No more. And maybe in any case it would be better to die. If I'm going to die, better to kill myself.
And I do what I know I can't. I do jump. I do fall.
Terrible pain around my neck. Flashes of colour behind my eyes. A small interested corner of my brain looked on and said to itself: This is what it is like to die. The last gulps of air, the final pumps of blood before the fading into death and not existing.
The lights did fade but the pain became sharper and more localized. My neck. A scraping on a cheek. One leg felt as if it had been bent backwards. My face, my breasts, my stomach were so hard on the ground it felt for a moment as if I'd pulled the wall down with me and it was lying on top of me, weighing me down.
And I wasn't dead. I was alive.
Then a thought came into my mind like a jab of steel right through me. I wasn't tied down. He wasn't here. How long had he gone? Think. Think. This time I hadn't counted. Quite a long time. My wrists were still tied behind my back. I tugged at them. Useless. I almost sobbed. Had I done this just to lie helpless on the floor? I swore to myself that if I could do nothing else I would kill myself by smashing my head on the stone. If I had no other power, I could at least deny him that pleasure.
My body felt sore and starved into weakness. And there was a new fear. I had virtually abandoned myself to death and there had been peace in that. It had been a form of anaesthetic. But now I
had a chance. That knowledge brought feelings back into my limbs. I was able to be very, very frightened again.
I swung my body around. Now my back was resting on my tethered arms. If I could push them over my feet so they were in front of me. It was a gymnast's trick and I'm so far from being a gymnast. I raised my feet off the ground and stretched them back as if I were going to touch the ground behind my head. Now the pressure was off my wrists. I made an exploratory attempt to pull my hands round. They wouldn't go round. I pushed and pushed. No. I groaned. Then I spoke to myself. Silently. It went like this: Some time soon, in one minute or three hours or maybe five, he will come back and he will kill you. There will absolutely definitely never be another chance after this one. You know this can be done. You have seen children doing it as a game. You probably did it when you were a girl. You would cut your hands off, if that would get you out of these knots. You don't have to do that. You just have to get your hands in front of you. If it means you need the strength to dislocate your shoulders, then do it. Strain yourself. Get ready. Five, four, three, two, one.