Read Online The Book of Revelation by Rupert Thomson - Free Book Online Page A

spikes protruding from it. He wondered where Maude was. Downstairs, probably. Washing the dishes.
    “A successful evening,” Astrid said, inhaling deeply.
    “It was a triumph,” Gertrude said. “A real triumph.”
    “The dessert was especially good. . . .”
    Both women laughed.
    He looked from one to the other. Though they were probably quite close in age—or, at least, much closer than he had originally imagined—Gertrude’s skin was anaemic, almost ghostly, while Astrid’s had a glow to it, like treasure. Astrid had a neat round head, with even features and hair that she kept cut short. Her tight-fitting rubber mask revealed as much. Was Gertrude secretly jealous of the way Astrid looked? Was that why Maude was there, to act as a foil, a distraction, something for them both to ridicule? He wished he knew how the women behaved when they were alone together. But the door that led out of the room was like a science fiction gateway. As soon as the women passed through it they seemed to dematerialise, to become invisible; they crossed into a different dimension.
    “You behaved well,” Astrid said, studying the end of her cigarette.
    “You behaved impeccably,” Gertrude agreed. “We’d like to reward you.”
    She walked towards him, her breasts lolling complacently, the insides of her upper thighs rubbing lightly together. To his surprise, he felt his penis harden. She didn’t seem to notice, though—or, if she did, she took pleasure in pretending that she hadn’t. Up close, her eyes looked bloodshot. He thought she was probably drunk.
    “What would you like?” she asked him.
    “Within reason, of course,” came Astrid’s voice from behind her.
    As he looked up at Gertrude, the air seemed to warp suddenly, to shudder. At first he didn’t realise what it was. Then he saw it. A single hair had fallen from beneath her hood. A single hair had come loose and floated downwards through the air between them. It had fallen past his face, too close for him to focus on, and landed on the gold fabric of the tablecloth, just inches from his right elbow. He could see it lying there, about the length of a finger, with a slight curve to it. It was red.
    Gertrude seemed quite oblivious to what had happened. “Tell me what you’d like,” she was saying, breathing wine fumes over him, “what you’d like for a reward. . . .”
    “You could let me go,” he said.
    She turned away. “No. That’s not an option.”
    “Within reason,” Astrid reminded him, crushing out her cigarette.
    He looked down at the red hair again—a give-away, a clue, a piece of evidence. How long had he spent imprisoned in this room? Five days? Six? He was beginning to lose count. He had been taken on a Monday afternoon. Could it be Saturday already? His eyes shifted to his body, which he no longer felt as if he owned. He could almost see the weakness spreading through him. His body was his only clock, he realised, and he had no way of measuring time except in terms of wastage, atrophy, decay. Disgust collected like a kind of bile in his throat.
    “There must be something you would like,” Gertrude was saying.
    His lungs had filled with dust. He could hardly breathe.
    “I need to move,” he said. “I need some air.”
    •
    He thought he sensed tension as the women walked into the room the next morning, the tension that follows an argument that has yet to be resolved. He had the feeling that there might have been some disagreement over the granting of his request. There was a certain stiffness in their body language. He saw hips and elbows. Thumbs. Watching them arrange themselves in front of him, he realised that this was a sequence he could have choreographed. What kind of music would he have chosen for a piece like this? Would it have been full of jarring dissonance, in keeping with the mood, or would it have flowed sweetly, providing an ironic counterpoint?
    Once both his hands and feet were shackled, the women helped him to