Mace Crindle Plant
December 3, 1.30 p.m.
She woke up. She was sore but she was alive. How many hours had passed? She didn’t know if he had gone or was sitting with her. She couldn’t keep silent any more. She was close to breaking point. She didn’t want to speak to him, but she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she said.
There was silence for a moment, then the low whistle again. It started coming closer. Closer and closer.
Then she heard the sound of his shoes on the grainy concrete floor and the shuffling of a chair, the slight rustle of his clothes. Why was he staying so quiet?
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
Was this some kind of game he was playing?
She’d woken up on a chair. She wasn’t dead. That was her first thought. Why wasn’t she dead? She remembered dying, but now… she was here again. She wasn’t dead: there was too much sensation, too much pain, too much fear.
Her arms and legs were tied to the chair. There was a tight hood over her head and eyes, but she didn’t seem to have anything more than bruises.
‘I want to know why!’
The figure behind her stirred. It whistled. The same low whistle. Her body shivered. She couldn’t help it. It was recognition. The whistle was her scrap of sanity in the dark and now it was up close and dangerous. She heard him rise to his feet. Her body tensed in fear. His footsteps were coming round in front of her. What was he going to do?
He touched her. A horrified pulse ran through her spine. A finger on her lips. She went still like an animal playing dead. Dead, dead still. The finger was cold. It was pushing her bottom lip down. She was resisting opening her mouth. She didn’t want him to open her mouth. She didn’t know what he was going to do, but his finger pressed more forcefully.
He whistled low and long and continued to press.
Finally, her mouth opened obediently. Was he looking at her mouth? Was he thinking? An object moved against her lip, then her teeth. It was hard. No, not very hard. He pushed it in her mouth and closed her lips.
It was a half-moon shape and soon the taste registered on her tongue.
Apple!
She nearly whimpered. The simple pleasure of a slice of apple. She was being fed. Food was sustenance, sustenance was life — he was sustaining her. She sucked on the piece of apple, then crunched into it. The juices on her tongue felt so concentrated, it was almost painful. She chewed and swallowed.
What next? He didn’t do anything else. A minute passed. She wanted more. She wanted more apple.
Slowly she opened her mouth before him. As a bird would to its mother.
He pushed another piece of apple into her mouth. So this was what he wanted? He wanted her to need him?
She chewed the crisp, juicy flesh. It was heavenly. She missed the earth and its gifts. Air, sky, fruit, grass and fields. The simple horizons.
She felt him close. He was behind her. He was uncuffing her hands. Then he knelt and untied her legs. What was he going to do?
Suddenly, he turned on a water tap. She could hear it, but with her leather hood could still see nothing. The water ran to the top of a bucket. Then she heard it overflowing. They were both concentrating on the bucket. He with his eyes, she with her ears.
He whistled. She felt her body wake up, the saliva form in her mouth.
‘Come to me,’ said his voice.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Come to me,’ said the voice. Again the whistle, low and long.
She remained in her seat. She could hear the trickle of water as a small stream slowly reached out from the bucket.
‘Come to me,’ said the voice. He whistled again.
Denise put her foot forward.
The water touched her toe. She recoiled quickly and then regained her confidence. The foot moved back to the edge of the stream. Denise felt the water reaching under the soles of her feet, tickling her.
‘On your knees.’ His voice was terse and severe.
Denise didn’t move. Then the whistle came and she couldn’t stop herself. She needed food. She had nothing but obedience to occupy her mind and body. Her legs bent and she lowered herself to her knees.
The water was ice cold about her shins. She shivered and goose bumps appeared all over her.
Her flesh was alive and awake. He wanted to touch her. Feather-light touches in his dungeon. He wanted to touch this one so lightly, his spirit would soar. He wanted to see the reaction of her flesh to his touch.
‘Crawl to me,’ said the voice. He whistled. She crawled across the ice-cold stream of water. Hooded, bent, cold and vulnerable.
‘Lay your head on my lap,’ he said. He whistled. She obeyed.
‘Good, good girl,’ he said. A small piece of bread was pushed into her mouth.