‘Are you ready now?’ he asked, as if I had delayed the cutting, although he was the one who had needed convincing. He made tiny slits on my thighs, the blood staining the bed, like some virginal bride’s. At first, the sight of blood made his face contort, but then his desire swelled. The last few moments are always vital, and as a well-trained seductress, I knew how to perform, every movement, touch, expertly delivered. Despite being in control, I called out for ‘help’, knowing it would increase his want. He slapped me across the face, before covering my mouth again, his grip hard and desperate, as his body pushed in further and I no longer existed as a person. I felt myself disappear, but I could hear my laughter. He liked the sound, groaning like some wild boar, consumed with his own pleasure. I made sure his enjoyment was long and satisfying, timing my response to his thrust, teasing him at just the right moments. Then his release, stretched, prolonged, and fraught with yearning. Afterwards he was like a limp flower, wasted and fulfilled.
When he untied me, I was tempted to cut him unexpectedly, to see if he would flinch. I decided against it, asking him to lick my wounds, the way a lapdog would lick the wounds of a master. It was only then that I saw the shadow of the witch, fleeting from one side of the room to the other. She had seen the two of us together, and I despised the pleasure it gave her.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, and I sensed his need to be assured.
‘Yes, sleep now, my lovely.’
He closed his eyes as I lay silent, still looking around the room, hoping the witch would leave me in peace. I couldn’t see her any more, but I know she likes to hide, waiting for her time to pounce.
The witch told me never to take pleasure from sex, that the pain was my punishment for being a bad girl. What I know about badness, I learned from her. Like my mother, I became the object of another’s desire. I haven’t told you very much about my mother, but I do imagine myself as her babe in arms – Hush, little baby, please don’t cry.
SANDRA
CHECKING INTO THE hotel room last night had been easier than I’d thought. I had an unsettled night, and each time I awoke, I felt the very same, as if a madwoman had taken over my mind.
With morning light flooding the room, I can’t stay in bed any longer. I get up, walk over to the dressing table and pick up the leather-bound booklet on the top. Opening it, I read about the hotel’s history, what number I need to call for laundry or to make a hairdressing appointment. I check the breakfast, lunch and dinner times, as if I’m a regular guest staying there for a couple of days’ relaxation. That’s what I said to the girl at Reception, that I was staying for two nights, maybe a little longer.
I slam the leather-bound booklet shut and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth before showering. The power of the water is strong, the warmth on my body a relief, a distraction from thoughts of Edgar and everything else. When I step out of the shower, the towel feels soft against my skin. I wrap it tight around me and brush my hair, untangling the knots with long, sweeping movements. Outside I can hear the clatter of bins, the hum of voices, cars driving past on the main road. Lifting the stray hairs from the bathroom basin, I chuck them into the bin, then wash my hands again, focusing on the water gurgling down the plughole. I hear other sounds too, the creaking of floorboards, like someone’s footsteps. I look up, thinking the sounds are coming from above, but they’re not: they’re coming from the other side of the bathroom door. Did I lock it?
I bite my lip. If someone is out there, they know I’m here. They would have heard the shower. What if it’s her? I hear more sounds from outside the bathroom window. I try to block them out, then hear a loud bang. Was it a door closing? It could have been from down the landing. I can’t stay locked in a bathroom. I think about calling out. Where’s your mobile? I already know it’s in the other room. There’s that sound again, the sound of someone walking around a room, but this time it is coming from above.
I unlock the bathroom door, turning the handle slowly, pulling the door back a couple of inches and peering into the room. I can’t see anyone. I tell myself I’m being stupid. I pick up my mobile phone from the bedside table. I remember putting it on top of my diary last night, but the diary isn’t there. Did I put it somewhere else? No, I wouldn’t have. I look under the pillows, on the floor by the bed. I check my bag, and my overnight case, rummaging through each of the sections, knowing all the time I won’t find it. I pull back the bedcovers. Still nothing. I retrace my steps, going over to the dressing table, picking up the leather-bound hotel booklet, as if it might give me a clue. I scan the room, looking at the bed again, the bedside locker, the dressing table, the chair tucked underneath.
I hear someone walking down the landing. I lean against the door, straining to hear more. Their footsteps are slow. I think they’re going to knock or, even worse, open the door, but they keep on walking. I breathe a sigh of relief, and press my back against the wall, and it’s then I see the diary. It’s on the window seat. I don’t remember leaving it there. I check the door is locked before walking over to it. There’s something about the way the diary is positioned that bothers me. Then I realise it’s not the positioning: it’s because the clasp isn’t locked. It’s flipped open.