Imperfect Strangers (25 page)

“Move!” Anger pushes aside
my fear. “I’ve got to go.”

I almost break free of him, intent on racing down the stairs, out into the street, screaming as loud as I can as I run away.
Finally I slip past him; he catches my elbow, though, and yanks me back into the doorway. As he pushes me into the bedroom, the look in his eyes brings back my fear, my panic, my dread, dread that the worst imaginable thing is going to happen to me. Tonight. Here. Now. Now. Here, in this fake version of my own bedroom at home. Here, in this perverse fantasy of Keith’s. Now. This night.

He closes the door behind him and walks towards me, his eyes locked on mine, his arms held stiff by his side, his hands clenched, the knuckles white
with pressure. “You said you’d stay.” Globs of spit fly on Keith’s words, and I realise he’s crying. He’s crying like a little boy – no sound, just rolling streams of moisture on each red cheek. “I thought we’d be more than just friends. I did this for you. I got rid of her for you.”

Got rid of who
? Kerry?
Oh my god he’s killed Kerry
. No.
Of course he hasn’t
. I left her at home. Home! How distant that word sounds. I wonder if I will ever see it again. The contempt I feel for the pitiful figure of Keith suddenly pushes aside my fear of him. “Kerry was right, you are weird. You’re more than weird, you’re a fucking freak!” The instant I say this I regret it.

The anger on his face is more terrifying than any horror film I ever saw. This is real. Real anger. Real fury. This is
what anger looks like when it is out of control. This is the kind of anger that leads to murder without restraint, without regret. It’s the kind of anger where remorse comes too late. I didn’t mean to do it, they say in police interviews. She pushed me. She pushed and pushed and pushed and wouldn’t stop. I saw red mist, something snapped, and the next thing I knew... I don’t know how I know this, but I know. I have to think quickly. I have to do something, I have to, or I’ll just be another statistic, a reconstruction by an actress who looks far too sensible to get herself into a situation like this.

“FUCK OFF BITCH!” His shout is so loud, so intensely forceful that it makes me scream with shock. His spit sprays my face. I close my eyes expecting the worse. Instinctively m
y hands come up before my face.

“
Bad boys need their hands tied.”
Keith affects his voice with a kind of shrillness that’s not dissimilar to that of an elderly woman
. “
GET BACK IN THE BATHROOM. Get out!” he yells in his own voice “
Whojathinkyar
?” in old woman voice. “GET OUT of here YOU BITCH!” his own.

I dare to peer through gaps in my fingers. Keith isn’t facing me. He is facing the bedroom door. He opens the door. He turns to look back into the room. His teeth are bared, clenched, his lips drawn back into a snarling expression of pure loathing. I can feel myself shaking. Had I not recently emptied my bladder I would surely pee. Right now, at this moment, I understand how a person’s bowels can open through fear. I can hear
air drawing into his nostrils. As he glares into the room, one hand on the door’s edge, the other slowly lifts as if to strike something before him.

“GET THE FUCK
OUT.”

Does he mean me? I’m about to move
, but I stop when Keith hunches his body into a wizened stoop.

“
Dirty boys need cleaning
,” he says in the shrill tone he used before. “GET OUT,” he shouts, instantly altering his posture, standing upright, his chest inflated. Then stooped again, he hunches, visibly wizened, looking genuinely aged as if each and every muscle in his body is struggling to keep him upright. “
Naughty boys have to be tied and beaten and scrubbed till they’re clean.
SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUTHEFUCKUPANDGETOUT!!!”

Keith kicks at the air in the doorway. “And stay out.” He slams the door with such force that it rattles the
picture frames on the walls. The reverberation seems to sound for an age as he slowly turns to face me. He’s fucking crazy. I swallow with dry resistance. His face has become a picture of calm. What now? What happens next? Molestation? Rape? Murder? All three?

“She’s gone now
,” he says, his voice so calm, so resolute, so serene. “She won’t come back in.”

I dry wash my hands, my mind racing, as I think to play along with whatever it is
that’s going on in his mind. “Maybe you should go and see if she’s alright. She... she might be upset. We... we can’t be comfortable... I mean... if, not if she’s–”

Keith chuckles in a patronising way. He steps forward and takes my trembling hand into his own. “She won’t be upset
, Sally. She’s dead. She died some years back, and I wasn’t even sad.” He turns to face the door and with menace in his voice, through partially gritted teeth, says: “And she’s tormented me for it every day since.” He turns back to face me, a warm smile on his face. “I know you didn’t mean what you said before. That thing that you said Kerry said. I know it’s only her trying to poison you against me. I’ll get her for it, though. I’ll get revenge on her for you. I’ll do anything for you.”

He gently
eases me back, and I find I’m sitting on the bed. Keith looms over me, his breathing tremulous with apparent lust as he glances at the wardrobe: an exact replica of the one in my bedroom at home.

CHAPTER
36

Keith suddenly stands
with a posture of uncertainty, fidgeting on the spot, looking like a child who is unsure where to take the game he’s just invented. It’s an eerie feeling looking around at all this stuff; this could actually be my room: the dresser with brushes and bottles of perfume arranged exactly as I would arrange them; the curtains, shimmering with soft pink light; the carpet, same colour and smell of newness. I find myself wanting the wine stain, liking it all of a sudden, because it’s different to this, this, weirdness, wanting an anchor to my own life, to normality. If I wasn’t so afraid, I think I would actually laugh out loud. It’s ridiculous, this situation. Some twisted, surreal wind up.

“Here, come and look.” Keith drags me from the bed
, across the velvet plush carpet to the wardrobe.

When he flings open the doors I gasp. For a moment
, I have trouble believing my eyes. “How…? When did you get my clothes?” Maybe he went to my house while I was on my way here and, somehow, got back before me. Oh my god, maybe he has killed Kerry. No, don’t be stupid; he didn’t know I was coming.

Ru
nning his hand over the hangers Keith turns to face me, the smile as broad on his face as any I have ever seen. “These aren’t yours, Sally. Well they are, but they’re not… They’re yours now; they’re all new. The bedside cabinet is full too. I bought them for you.”

Keith bounds across the room, dragging me by the wrist. “Open it,” he says
, pointing to the bedside cabinet.

After seeing the wardrobe
’s contents, I am reluctant. After seeing the contents of the wardrobe, I know that he has been in my bedroom. I know that he has rummaged through all of my things – he must have – he couldn’t have duplicated them otherwise. The implication, as I stare at the closed bedside-cabinet-drawer, is that he has also rummaged through the drawer that is full of my knickers: everyday cotton at the top, posh silk in the middle, and grubby time-of-the-month ones at the bottom. The embarrassment of knowing he’s been in there is only worsened by the vivid image of the silver and black vibrator beneath them all. I hold my breath, lean forward, and pull open the top-drawer. Despite the expectancy that’s wound with jack-in-a-box-like tension – the contents still make me gasp.

“What I couldn’t replace exactly, I bettered.” Keith says this matter-of-factly,
like he’s some kind of loss-adjuster for an insurance claim. “I bought silk in place of satin. Some at the bottom looked very old. Some had holes in them and elastic breaking free. These are all new. I want you to have the best, Sally. I couldn’t replace the thing in the bottom of the drawer though; I didn’t know what it was.”

I
don’t believe what my eyes are showing me. I close them and hold them shut for a moment, then look once more. It’s like a bad dream, one from which I can’t wake. It’s like looking into the very same drawer in my bedroom at home. Home: where I should be safe. Home: the place that he has violated. Fearing that my legs will fail me, I sit on the edge of the bed. Not only has he been in my room. That much was obvious the moment I stepped in here. But he has rifled through all my things, the clothes in my wardrobe, my underwear. It’s tantamount to rape; I’ve been psychologically raped. I fear it will not be long before that rape is physical. All I can think, and I know it’s getting in the way of rational thought, is that I may even be killed. Unless I can bend him to my will, that is. Desperately, I try to keep calm, to butter a smile over a burnt expression of dread.

“What was it Sally?”

I’m in a daze. His words enter my ears, but melt in my head without comprehension. “What?”

“The thing that was beneath your under
wear, what was it?”

He doesn’t have the slightest inkling that what he has done is inappropriate. He’s like a child
blundering along in an adult body, struggling to cope in an adult world. “It’s just a torch,” I say, my thoughts spiralling.

“Strange. I didn’t see a bulb, and it vibrated.”

“It’s... It’s just a torch.” Keith really is like an innocent child. I think I could turn that to my advantage. Somehow.
Think,
Sally,
think
. “Keith, the underwear is lovely,” I say. “Thank you. I always wanted silk,” I add, hoping the tremble in my voice isn’t too obvious. “Steve was too tight to buy me silk.”

Keith’s smile broadens. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore. You’re with me now. I got you some different things
, too. Surprises.” From a shelf in the wardrobe, Keith selects a skimpy nightdress. He holds it before his face, a thumb hooked into each slender strap. It is short, wispy, its floatiness evident in the way it shimmers. The fabric catches the glow of the light and accentuates every nervous twitch of his arms. His face is visible through it, but the gauzy fabric masks his features, like a robber wearing tights. As he speaks, his breath creates a little flutter down its length. “I like this one,” he says, with obvious relish. “It looks like the one worn by the fairy on your desk.”

He drapes it on the bed by the side of
me. I look down at it. Steve once bought me something similar, though even that one would have left more to the imagination. He’d taken it to Florence, secreted in his own suitcase. I refused to wear it even then, thinking it somehow more revealing than actual nakedness.

“I’d like you to wear that.”

Despite the voice in my head, a voice that is telling me to comply, to do anything that will bring the next day closer without any harm befalling me, I feel an overwhelming refusal boiling inside. “No. Keith. Just stop this, now.” I stand defiantly.

Keith slams my shoulders, pushing me back onto the bed. “PUT IT ON! NOW!”

He sounds all at once like a demanding child. I don’t recall ever having been struck so forcefully in my life. Keeping on the right side of Keith, I realise is like walking upon a lake of fracturing, frozen ice. My neck throbs. I realise tears are flowing down my cheeks, even my nose is streaming. Keith is hanging over me his face a picture of fury. My bottom lip begins to quiver as I try to stop the tears. I can’t stop it. Any attempt to try results in sucking loud gasps of upset.

“Stop that. This is supposed to be a nice time. Stop that crying.” He raises a clenched fist before my face. “You’re spoiling it. Stop
it or I’ll... I’ll
giyersommatercryfer
.”

On the fork of a dilemma now,
choosing between resist or comply, I decide to take the compliant route. Both paths are likely to take me to the same place. Rape. One of them though, the route of resistance, more than likely has a beating en route, possibly death at its end. Unable to believe that I am being so rational, I unfasten my belt buckle. Ever so slowly, I draw the leather-strap from the waistband of my jeans. Normally I would leave it there, ready for quick dressing the following morning, but I’m thinking all the time. Removed from my jeans the belt might serve as a weapon. A weapon he could just as easily use as me, but too late now. I reach over my head and place it by the pillow. Compliancy is giving me more time to think than resistance would; it is giving Keith time to calm down; it’s giving him time to become less angry with me. Perhaps I will get chance to reason with him, to get him to feel an ounce of guilt, or a smidgen of compassion. He needs to be calm, though, if I’m going to get him to think straight. The more sexually excited he seems to get, the less rational he appears to be. I lie back, pressing my shoulders into the mattress, raising my bottom. I’m extra careful not to drag down my knickers with the jeans, realising the effect it could have on Keith, and draw the jeans down my legs.

Keith’s breathing is notably heavier. Tremulous. His eyes are wide and unblinking, travelling the length of my naked thighs, settling momentarily, I think, on the white V of my knickers. His hands are gripping the loose material of his trousers. Twisting it, drawing it tight over his thighs. He’s hard, and his hand hovers towards his cock. He doesn’t touch it though, and it’s as if the gripping of his trousers is a way of distracting himself from his arous
al. Perhaps that’s a good sign.

I keep having to remind myself to draw breath, as well as reminding myself to force a smile. He either does not see the smile or he no longer cares whether I am happy or not, for he does not respond in kind. His sexual excitement seems to be preventing him from seeing me as someone he claims to care about, from seeing me as someone who has shown him kindness. I know I must next remove my blouse, leaving me in only my bra and knickers. I know that will make him more excited still. It will be even less likely that I can reason with him then. There will be less chance of getting him to change his mind. My hands are shaking. They can hardly gr
ip the buttons to push them through the holes. I start at the bottom, hoping he will have a change of heart before my bra is revealed. Being realistic, I know that is increasingly unlikely to happen. At what point, I begin to wonder, should I leap from the path of compliance and begin to fight. Do all women think this way, I question? It’s as if I have sectioned my mind. One part is screaming like a hysterical lunatic, while the other part is rationally considering all available options.

There are only two buttons left. When they are unfastened I will have no alternative other than to remove the blouse. That will leave me in only my underwear. Exposed. Vulnerable. My throat is dry and refuses to swallow. My eyes feel sore and the tears have run dry. My muscles ache with tension. Keith now seems to be even more excited, his eyes, still unblinking, locked onto those last two buttons. I begin to wonder if I chose the wrong path. Maybe I should have refused to remove my clothes. I should have made him do it. Make me, I should have said. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to. Maybe the act of physically forcing me would have brought him to his senses; maybe it would have made him see what it was that he was doing to me. Maybe he is seeing this compliance as acceptance, even a willingness to take part in his sick alternative view of reality.

The harsh slap on my thigh shocks me. I didn’t see it coming. A second slap makes me realise that he
would
have forced me to undress. Whatever path I had taken, I would likely still be where I am now. I would still be undressed, but suspect that if I had fought from the beginning, that I would by now have no control at all.

“What was that for,” I ask, elevating the upset in my voice in the hope that it will arouse his sympathy rather than his anger.

“I’ll
giyerwhatfer
. Now get on or you’ll find
yersen sleepinintcupboard
.” He makes the demand in the same elderly style voice that he used earlier, raspy and shrill, and the words spill from his mouth so fast that they wind up merging into one long string of barely decipherable sound.

“Don’t hurt me, Keith. Please don’t.”

A puzzled expression crosses his brow. “Best hurry up,” he tells me, “or she’ll get angry. We will both be in bother then.”

I wonder if Keith is perhaps unaware of the ramifications of what he is doing. He is socially inept at the best of times. Maybe he never meant for it to go this way.
If so, there is a chance yet that this will not end in rape. If I can only get him to see what he is doing, that this is not how people in proper relationships behave. It was my initial shock, my reaction, my wandering from the route of his make-believe world that caused him to behave this way. He was happy about the fact that I was simply going to stay, at first. If only I could have disguised my horror, then perhaps he would now be sleeping contentedly in the spare room instead of this. I will not take responsibility for the predicament I find myself in, but I suspect I could have avoided it coming to this.

Quickly, then, as normal seeming as I can force
myself to be under the glare of his unblinking eyes, hoping he’s not going to insist I take off my bra and knickers, I pick up the sheer dress and pull it over my head. As I suspected, as I had suspected when Steve gave me something similar, I somehow feel more vulnerable with it on than I did with only my underwear. I realise it’s not actually a nightdress, but a top: the kind of thing that one would combine with a vest of a similar colour, giving a multi-layer effect. Bizarrely, I find myself imagining what the complete ensemble would have looked like and hear Poppy’s voice saying
beauty and the freak
, and
look good naked
.

“Lovely,”
Keith says, reaching forward and brushing my naked shoulder with the back of his fingers, his other hand reaching out and brushing loose strands of hair from my tear glued cheeks. “Blow a kiss to the ceiling, like the angel. Do it standing up, like the angel.”

“She didn’t take the bra off,” Keith blurts in the
third voice I’ve heard him use, the one that sounds child-like. “Make her show her boobies.”

In his own everyday voice Keith says
“No she can leave that on.”

Weird, it really feels like there’s another person in the room
.

“Her pant
ies then, take off the panties.”

Keith pauses as if considering the request.

“No. Only if she wants to.” He smiles at me, twitching his head as if inviting a response.

I bite my lower lip and subtly shake my head.