though they were still standing over him.
At last, and without warning, they withdrew. He lay still. The air had a muffled quality to it, a deadness. He wondered whether the room was sound-proofed. It seemed likely. If so, the music he had heard when he came round must have been playing in his head, his blood making one thin sound as it ran through his veins, like fifty bows drawn slowly over fifty sets of strings. . . .
And now, in the same way, the woman’s words floated in the air above him, haunting, constant, the meaning just out of reach:
You’re ours now. You belong to us.
•
It was hard for him to work out exactly how much time had passed. The blue in the skylight had darkened, though it was not yet night. He was just beginning to feel the first stirrings of hunger when the door swung open and a woman walked into the room, a tray balanced between her hands. She moved towards him cautiously, so as not to spill anything, setting the tray down on the rubber mat. There was cold meat, salad, cheese, fresh fruit and bottled water. In the context of the room, which was so bare and colourless, the food looked exotic, almost absurd.
Kneeling beside him, the woman reached for the water. For a few moments she struggled to undo the plastic top. Either she had no strength in her hands, he thought, or else she was nervous, perhaps. The air gushed out of her as the seal broke and the top finally came free. She filled a glass and held it to his mouth. He gulped the water down. She had to do everything for him, dabbing his chin with a napkin when he drank too fast and almost choked.
By now, his head had cleared. He felt he should start to take things in, to gather information. He watched as the woman peeled an apple, green skin curling away from moist white flesh and dangling in the air below her thumb. Her hands were raw, he noticed—red, slightly swollen knuckles, bitten fingernails. Her head remained lowered, which made it difficult to see her eyes, though he sometimes caught a glimpse of them, a momentary glitter, as she helped him to a piece of lettuce or a slice of meat. Once, the faint, ticklish smell of mothballs lifted off the sleeve of her cloak as she reached towards him, making him think that it had only recently been taken out of storage. Where had the cloaks come from? Did the women own them?
Was this the first time they had attempted something like this?
All of a sudden he saw the theatre floodlit for the evening’s performance, with people crowding into the foyer, taxis drawing up outside—
“What’s the time?” he asked.
The woman shook her head, her way of signalling that he shouldn’t talk. But he wanted to. He had to.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got a performance tonight.”
She gave no sign that she had even heard him.
“I’m due on stage at seven-thirty.” Then, though he felt stupid saying it, he added, “I’m a dancer .”
She might as well have been deaf.
“So I can’t ask you anything?” he said.
When the woman saw that he had eaten and drunk enough, she rose to her feet, picked up the tray and moved towards the door. He watched her go, his head lifting off the rubber mat, his neck muscles at full stretch. She had not spoken to him, he realised. Not even once.
Lying back, he wondered if he was being held to ransom. The thought of his father receiving a ransom note—his father who had always been so careful with money!—was almost enough to make him laugh out loud.
•
Later on that first day, when night had fallen and the overhead lights had been switched on, all three women returned. This time they stood by the door at the far end of the room. They seemed to be conferring.
At last they turned and swept towards him. They gathered round him, as before. Disturbed by their approach, tiny complex galaxies of dust floated away from him, across the floor. . . .
He had decided to hide anything he might be feeling, in much the same way that the women were concealing
At last, and without warning, they withdrew. He lay still. The air had a muffled quality to it, a deadness. He wondered whether the room was sound-proofed. It seemed likely. If so, the music he had heard when he came round must have been playing in his head, his blood making one thin sound as it ran through his veins, like fifty bows drawn slowly over fifty sets of strings. . . .
And now, in the same way, the woman’s words floated in the air above him, haunting, constant, the meaning just out of reach:
You’re ours now. You belong to us.
•
It was hard for him to work out exactly how much time had passed. The blue in the skylight had darkened, though it was not yet night. He was just beginning to feel the first stirrings of hunger when the door swung open and a woman walked into the room, a tray balanced between her hands. She moved towards him cautiously, so as not to spill anything, setting the tray down on the rubber mat. There was cold meat, salad, cheese, fresh fruit and bottled water. In the context of the room, which was so bare and colourless, the food looked exotic, almost absurd.
Kneeling beside him, the woman reached for the water. For a few moments she struggled to undo the plastic top. Either she had no strength in her hands, he thought, or else she was nervous, perhaps. The air gushed out of her as the seal broke and the top finally came free. She filled a glass and held it to his mouth. He gulped the water down. She had to do everything for him, dabbing his chin with a napkin when he drank too fast and almost choked.
By now, his head had cleared. He felt he should start to take things in, to gather information. He watched as the woman peeled an apple, green skin curling away from moist white flesh and dangling in the air below her thumb. Her hands were raw, he noticed—red, slightly swollen knuckles, bitten fingernails. Her head remained lowered, which made it difficult to see her eyes, though he sometimes caught a glimpse of them, a momentary glitter, as she helped him to a piece of lettuce or a slice of meat. Once, the faint, ticklish smell of mothballs lifted off the sleeve of her cloak as she reached towards him, making him think that it had only recently been taken out of storage. Where had the cloaks come from? Did the women own them?
Was this the first time they had attempted something like this?
All of a sudden he saw the theatre floodlit for the evening’s performance, with people crowding into the foyer, taxis drawing up outside—
“What’s the time?” he asked.
The woman shook her head, her way of signalling that he shouldn’t talk. But he wanted to. He had to.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got a performance tonight.”
She gave no sign that she had even heard him.
“I’m due on stage at seven-thirty.” Then, though he felt stupid saying it, he added, “I’m a dancer .”
She might as well have been deaf.
“So I can’t ask you anything?” he said.
When the woman saw that he had eaten and drunk enough, she rose to her feet, picked up the tray and moved towards the door. He watched her go, his head lifting off the rubber mat, his neck muscles at full stretch. She had not spoken to him, he realised. Not even once.
Lying back, he wondered if he was being held to ransom. The thought of his father receiving a ransom note—his father who had always been so careful with money!—was almost enough to make him laugh out loud.
•
Later on that first day, when night had fallen and the overhead lights had been switched on, all three women returned. This time they stood by the door at the far end of the room. They seemed to be conferring.
At last they turned and swept towards him. They gathered round him, as before. Disturbed by their approach, tiny complex galaxies of dust floated away from him, across the floor. . . .
He had decided to hide anything he might be feeling, in much the same way that the women were concealing
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