Read Online Without Consent by Frances Fyfield - Free Book Online Page B

see what a nice room it was. Admire me for it. Pathetic, isn’t it?’
    â€˜No,’ Helen said. ‘It isn’t.’
    â€˜And then he was on me. No preliminaries, no nothing. I thought at first he was hugging me from behind, fooling around, and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want a quick poke, for God’s sake; even I can get one of those if I want nothing more. I wanted sweet words, admiration, some sort of tentative beginning, some curiosity about
me …
Oh, I don’t know what I wanted, I didn’t even want him to see my bare knees.’ Her voice fell into silence. Helen wondered if it was permissible to smoke a cigarette and decided not.
    â€˜Oh, do smoke if you want. I think I’ll have one too. It’s amazing the number of nurses who smoke, you know. Doctors, too.’
    â€˜Was he a doctor?’
    â€˜Did I say that?’ Anna said sharply. ‘No, I didn’t say that. Of course he wasn’t a doctor, how could he be? A sort of technician, really.’ She took the cigarette with a shaking hand.
    â€˜I fell onto the iron. He pushed me down against it; it fell over. I don’t know if he meant to do that, but he must have known it hurt, because I screamed. My arm was burnt.’ She pulled back her sleeve. There was a triangular imprint of a fading burn mark, still livid.
    â€˜The board fell over. I fell with it, I think; on my stomach, against the iron, then I rolled over against it again. I waslying on top of it, screaming; he seemed to be pressing me down. I think it was then I realized he meant to do me harm. I started struggling, but I was kind of paralysed, too; I could only focus on how much the burning hurt. Next thing I knew, he’d hauled the T-shirt over my face. I was on my back, couldn’t see anything. I began to cry, I think. I thought he was going to rape me, kill me, I don’t know what. I couldn’t move. He held my arms down, but there was really no need. Even when he moved and I heard what I thought was the rustling of paper, I didn’t move. Then I felt this thing going in between my legs. I think I’d already made a half-conscious decision to stay still. Something stuck up me. Rammed. I might have passed out for a minute.’
    The ash on the end of her cigarette smouldered and dropped onto the clean table. Helen brushed it away; it burnt slightly against her palm.
    â€˜I don’t know why, I thought of a sixty-millilitre syringe.’ Anna’s voice had gone down to a murmur, as if she was speaking to herself
    â€˜You can use them for irrigating a womb … and other plumbing operations; they’re sort of phallic shaped, cold …’ Her voice hardened. ‘I was simply aware of being fucked and being icy, icy cold. My stomach in contractions; me, fighting with the T-shirt, getting my face free. The fucking stopped. I certainly can’t call it anything else but fucking. Certainly not making love. I somehow sat up, got the shirt over my head, and there he was, sitting in the chair laughing. Me, naked, flopping all over the place; him, sitting with his legs crossed, immaculately dressed as usual. He favoured the smart casual. Nice white cotton tops, smart linen-look trousers, handsome belt.’
    â€˜Dressed?’ Helen murmured, incredulous.
    Anna extended both her arms, shaking them free of the purple kaftan sleeves. The colour of it suited her. The burns were almost symmetrical.
    â€˜So was I, dressed, I suppose. I was wearing three large burns. And I was so cold. And then what did he do? Swallowed his gin, came over to me, kissed me on the forehead and said, there, poppet, that was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Then he left. He was … pleased with himself. As if he’d done me a favour. There’s more wine in the fridge,’ she added. ‘Could you get it?’
    The fridge was empty apart from the bottle. It looked new and reeked of cleanser.
    â€˜Isn’t