“Jesus.”
“John lets it go as far as he can, and then just holds it there. Tries to keep himself at breaking point for as long as he can. When he first built it and I came and saw what he was doing I panicked and made him lose concentration. It nearly killed him. When he managed to get out he threw up and told me never to come in here again. I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t. Not then.” There was a deadness in the way she said it. “I’ve never watched him since, but I can tell by how long he stays in here and what he looks like when he comes out that he’s taking it further and further. One of these days...” She didn’t finish.
Ben tried to imagine what it would feel like to be strapped into the machine. “Why does he do it?”
“To help him see the Pattern. Why else?” She hugged herself and rubbed her arms. “He thinks the pain focuses his mind. All part of being ‘pure’. Can’t be impure if we want to see the Pattern, can we?”
He stared at the sweat-stained straps. In places the edges of them were marked with what looked like dried blood. “Are you sure he isn’t just trying to punish himself?”
Sandra looked at the rack as though she were frightened of it. “I’m not sure about anything.” She turned away suddenly. “Let’s go in. I’m freezing.”
As they went out he noticed the shotgun lying on a shelf to one side of the door. He remembered what it had done to the dog’s head. At least he keeps the place locked, he thought as he watched Sandra snap the heavy padlock shut. He followed her back to the house.
The kitchen began misting up as soon as they closed the door. They were both soaked, but at least he’d had a coat on. Her clothes were stuck to her. The outline of her bra was etched under her sweater. Her nipples stood out through both layers of fabric.
“You’re dripping all over the carpet,” she told him. “If you’re going to stay you might as well take your coat off.”
He did, draping it over his bag.
She handed him a towel. “Here.”
It was already damp and didn’t look too clean, but he took it anyway. Sandra rubbed her hair vigorously with another.
“I’m wet through.” Without any coyness she pulled off her sweater and dropped it on a chair. The skin of her arms, chest and stomach was pale and covered with goose bumps. Her white bra was semi-transparent.
“Don’t mind, do you?” she asked, pushing her wet hair back with her fingers so that it hung behind her ears. Her heavy breasts lifted with the movement.
“No.” He tried to remember what he’d been going to say next. “Look—”
“Coffee?”
“Uh, please.”
There was a small roll of flesh above the waistband of her skirt. She went to the sink and filled the kettle. To the left of her spine below her bra strap was a mole the size of a small fingernail. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d watched her through the long lens.
He made himself look through the window at the scrap metal.
“Why only wrecked cars?”
“What?”
She pushed the kettle plug into the socket with a firm jab from the palm of her hand. A muscle jumped down the side of her ribs.
“All the scrap. Why is it just cars? Why not bits of fridges and washing machines as well?”
“Because a car wreck’s violent. One minute it was driving around, the next it’s junk. And somebody with it. He thinks each piece he brings home is some sort of memento of that somebody’s life being smashed.”
She had turned to face him, but for a moment she seemed to forget he was there. Then she came back from wherever she’d been and smiled.
“I can’t see the point in looking for reasons,” she said. “Things happen, don’t they? You just have to make the most of what you’ve got.”
Ben didn’t say anything because she had started walking towards him. She didn’t take her eyes from his. The smile was still on her mouth. She came close and stood in front of him. He was surprised at how small she was. He could feel the fabric of her bra brushing his shirt. The weight of her breasts was an implied threat.
She rested her hands flat on his chest. They felt cold, then the heat of them came through.
“What have you got?” she asked, looking up at him.
She began to slide one hand lower. It burned a slow path down his stomach. There was a thrumming in his head, twinning the one in his crotch. Her hand reached it, pressed against it, and a vibration went through him as though she had struck a tuning fork. He stepped back slightly for balance and something crunched under his shoe.
He looked down. One of Jacob’s puzzles was crushed under his heel. Tiny silver balls had spilled from the broken plastic. He lifted his foot and more of them escaped, running like beads of mercury across the dirty carpet.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sandra told him. “John’s bought him loads of them. They’re all over the place.”
But Ben felt something shifting inside him, something that had nothing to do with the pressure of her hand. He took another step backwards. She looked surprised, then her expression grew closed at whatever she saw in his face. Her hand fell to her side.
“Well,” she said, looking away. She self-consciously folded her arms across her breasts. “Sorry if I’m not good enough for you. I expect you’re too used to models.”
Ben couldn’t think of anything he could say that would make things any better. The kettle clicked off, its steam adding to the fog on the window. He moved further away, careful not to step on any of the silver balls. He tried to reassemble his reason for being there.
“I’m going to tell the social services that I don’t think your husband’s mentally fit to look after Jacob,” he said.
Sandra went to where her sweater was discarded on the chair. “Do what you like.”
“All that stuff in the shed. He’s self-destructive. I’m not going to let anything happen to Jacob because he’s got some fixation.”
“Bully for you.” She felt the wet sweater and dropped it back down with a grimace of annoyance. She picked up a sweat-shirt from another chair.
“Will you back me up?” She paused in the act of pulling on the sweatshirt and stared at him. “Back you up? Don’t be fucking stupid!”
“You’ve just told me what he’s like.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to say he’s some sort of nutter so you can get his son taken off him.”
“He needs help.”
She laughed, harshly. “Don’t we all!” She jerked the sweatshirt over her head. “And don’t pretend you’re bothered about John. You don’t give a shit about him. You’re only worried about the kid.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
She raised a shoulder indifferently. “He’ll just have to take his chances with the rest of us. And since that’s all you came for you can fuck off. I’ve got to get tea ready.”
Ben went to his bag and took out the photographs of her and the men in the bedroom. Her expression became hunted as he held them out.
“What are they?”
When he didn’t answer she came forward and took them. She stared at the first one, then quickly at the next few. She flung them at him.
“You bastard! You fucking!”
He thought she was going to hit him, but she let her arms fall. She hung her head.
“I hope you enjoyed watching. You fucking shit.”
His cheek was stinging from the edge of one of the photographs. He put his fingers to it. They came away coloured with blood. He groped in his pocket for a tissue. His arms seemed sluggish. He felt he was moving through a mire of shame.