bog-standard white van, a set ofgeneric tyres, the victim’s run-of-the-mill meal, a
métro
ticket … You’re spoiled for choice.”
Armand nods.
Camille picks up his keys.
All he has to do is get through today and then Morel will be back.
9
The first time the man comes back, Alex’s heart heaves into her throat. She can hear him, but she cannot turn to see him. The footsteps are slow, heavy; they echo like a threat. Alex has spent every single hour anticipating his return, has imagined herself being raped, beaten, killed. She has seen the cage being lowered, felt the man grab her by the shoulder, drag her from the cage, slap her, twist her, force her, rape her, make her scream, kill her. Just as he promised. “I’m going to watch you die, you filthy whore.” When you call a woman a filthy whore, it means you want to kill her, doesn’t it?
It hasn’t happened yet. He hasn’t touched her yet; perhaps he’s getting off on the waiting. Putting her in a cage is designed to turn her into an animal, to degrade her, break her, to show her he is the master. This is why he beat her so savagely. These thoughts and a thousand others more terrible still prey on her mind. Dying is no picnic. But waiting for death …
Alex resolves to make a mental note of when he comes, but all sense of time quickly becomes blurred. Morning, daytime, evening, night are all part of a continuum in which her mind finds it increasingly difficult to navigate.
Every time he comes he stands in front of the cage, hands in his pockets, and stares at her for a long time, then he puts his leather jacket on the floor, winches the crate down to eye level, pulls out his mobile and takes a photograph, then walks the short distance to the place where he has dumped everything else – a dozen bottles of water, plastic bags, Alex’s clothes strewn on the floor: it’s hard for her, seeing these things almost within reach. He sits down. For a while he does nothing, he simply watches her. He looks as though he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t say what.
And then, something, she doesn’t know what, something prompts him to leave; he gets up without warning, slaps his thighs as though to spur himself on, winches the crate up again and, with a final glance, he leaves.
He never says a word. Alex has tried asking questions; not too many because she doesn’t want to make him angry, but he only ever answered once – the rest of the time he says nothing, seems to think nothing, he simply stares at her. As he said: I’m going to watch you die.
Alex’s position is – literally – unendurable.
It’s impossible for her to stand; the cage is not high enough. Impossible to lie down, since it’s not long enough. To sit upright, since the top is too low. She lives curled up on herself, almost into a ball. The pain soon became unbearable. Her muscles have begun to permanently cramp, her joints to seize up; everything is numb, everything is rigid, to say nothing of the cold. Her wholebody is stiff and, as she is unable to move, her circulation has slowed, which adds to the pain of the muscle contractions she must endure. She remembers images, diagrams from her nursing training of atrophied muscles, stiff, sclerotic joints. Sometimes it feels as though she is observing her own body wasting away, as though she is a radiologist, as though this body is not hers and she realises that her mind is beginning to divide into a person who is here and another who is not, who lives elsewhere, the beginnings of a madness that lies ahead, which is the inexorable result of this insufferable, inhuman position.
She cried for a long time, but then she found she had no more tears. She sleeps little, never for very long, since she is continuously woken by muscle spasms. She experienced the first really painful cramps last night, waking up screaming, her whole leg wracked by a terrible spasm. In an attempt to relieve the pressure, she pounded her foot against the planks
métro
ticket … You’re spoiled for choice.”
Armand nods.
Camille picks up his keys.
All he has to do is get through today and then Morel will be back.
9
The first time the man comes back, Alex’s heart heaves into her throat. She can hear him, but she cannot turn to see him. The footsteps are slow, heavy; they echo like a threat. Alex has spent every single hour anticipating his return, has imagined herself being raped, beaten, killed. She has seen the cage being lowered, felt the man grab her by the shoulder, drag her from the cage, slap her, twist her, force her, rape her, make her scream, kill her. Just as he promised. “I’m going to watch you die, you filthy whore.” When you call a woman a filthy whore, it means you want to kill her, doesn’t it?
It hasn’t happened yet. He hasn’t touched her yet; perhaps he’s getting off on the waiting. Putting her in a cage is designed to turn her into an animal, to degrade her, break her, to show her he is the master. This is why he beat her so savagely. These thoughts and a thousand others more terrible still prey on her mind. Dying is no picnic. But waiting for death …
Alex resolves to make a mental note of when he comes, but all sense of time quickly becomes blurred. Morning, daytime, evening, night are all part of a continuum in which her mind finds it increasingly difficult to navigate.
Every time he comes he stands in front of the cage, hands in his pockets, and stares at her for a long time, then he puts his leather jacket on the floor, winches the crate down to eye level, pulls out his mobile and takes a photograph, then walks the short distance to the place where he has dumped everything else – a dozen bottles of water, plastic bags, Alex’s clothes strewn on the floor: it’s hard for her, seeing these things almost within reach. He sits down. For a while he does nothing, he simply watches her. He looks as though he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t say what.
And then, something, she doesn’t know what, something prompts him to leave; he gets up without warning, slaps his thighs as though to spur himself on, winches the crate up again and, with a final glance, he leaves.
He never says a word. Alex has tried asking questions; not too many because she doesn’t want to make him angry, but he only ever answered once – the rest of the time he says nothing, seems to think nothing, he simply stares at her. As he said: I’m going to watch you die.
Alex’s position is – literally – unendurable.
It’s impossible for her to stand; the cage is not high enough. Impossible to lie down, since it’s not long enough. To sit upright, since the top is too low. She lives curled up on herself, almost into a ball. The pain soon became unbearable. Her muscles have begun to permanently cramp, her joints to seize up; everything is numb, everything is rigid, to say nothing of the cold. Her wholebody is stiff and, as she is unable to move, her circulation has slowed, which adds to the pain of the muscle contractions she must endure. She remembers images, diagrams from her nursing training of atrophied muscles, stiff, sclerotic joints. Sometimes it feels as though she is observing her own body wasting away, as though she is a radiologist, as though this body is not hers and she realises that her mind is beginning to divide into a person who is here and another who is not, who lives elsewhere, the beginnings of a madness that lies ahead, which is the inexorable result of this insufferable, inhuman position.
She cried for a long time, but then she found she had no more tears. She sleeps little, never for very long, since she is continuously woken by muscle spasms. She experienced the first really painful cramps last night, waking up screaming, her whole leg wracked by a terrible spasm. In an attempt to relieve the pressure, she pounded her foot against the planks
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