V
The week-days went by in a warm haze of aimless reading, neighbourhood wandering, and hours spent entertaining random thoughts in the more rarely-visited rooms of the house. A house, even an ordinary one, is a fascinating construction; every beam, window and plank of flooring has a place in the scheme of a physical enclosure, and the layout of rooms and furnishings become a puzzle of three-dimensional space; they are adjoined and linked rather like pockets of inter-related knowledge in the brain. It is remarkable how one's thoughts can reverberate more creatively in an unfamiliar series of rooms than in a studied, well-accustomed one.
On the day of the dinner party the weather was so enticing that I spent some hours sounding the strings of my violin behind a tree in the garden. My fingers and bow moved freely but my conscience was seized by a tiny, rueful voice, whose pleading ran through my head like a haunting fragment of melody:
You have lied to them... You have lied...
The singing strings would not drown out the tiny voice, so I countered, defensively, with a voice of my own: Was it necessary--or even possible--to make a concession to honesty while remaining true to my pursuits?
You have lied... You have lied...
Scientific inquiry makes no allowances or excuses, my inner voice declared. I may have engaged in some slight deceit, however, I did not feel as though I'd harmed anyone; to the contrary, my intentions were completely valid. And if they cannot accept the truth, do they still deserve to hear it?
But the modest, gentle voice persisted, and took on a new shape:
Can you pursue justice and truth by being untruthful?
Late into the afternoon, when the voice would give me no peace, I felt a queer, unshakeable urge to share my thoughts. I jerked my taut body up from the ground and rubbed the tree-bark imprint out of my back. As I loosened the bow and tucked it away, a nameless longing swept through me and called for immediate fulfilment, a need which I was hard-pressed to identify; it struck me rather like a craving for some forgotten favourite food. This unknown deprivation took shape as I lay the violin snugly in its case: I recalled a distant memory of tugging on a silver-haired housekeeper's soiled apron, and a whispered confession in her lowered ear, asking for her trust in keeping the hidden jars of insects under my bed a sublime confidence. My unkind heart sent a jabbing, mournful ache through my chest, reminding me that this benevolent, understanding woman was no longer with us. However, the impulse would not die, and to satisfy its hunger I made an acceptable substitute of person.
Madame was easily found in the sun-room standing in front of her massive wooden easel, one which dwarfed her quite comically. She was draped in a stained cotton apron which obscured her diminutive figure and she stared at a largely blank canvas, washed over with yellow ochre and faintly marked with pencil. I requested her attention and begged that we speak very quietly, to her mystified agreement.
"An invitation for this evening was extended to me some time ago, but I have been reluctant to mention it," I whispered into her ear. "On the pretext of solitary study in my room, I am going to slip out after tea and appear as violinist for a dinner party, which is to begin after sunset."
"A dinner party," she whispered in response, thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the canvas. Then she muttered, "Ou est le dîner?"
"It is at the home of Dr. Smith. I need you to keep this to yourself, without fail. Don't mention it to anyone, please, especially the master; I want to avoid any possibility of his displeasure."
She was understandably astonished, not just by my plan of action, but by my act of admitting it to her. She stood inert for a moment, then motioned for my ear, leaning carefully to avoid touching my clothes with her apron, and I inclined my head toward her lips.
"I have a bit of a confession of my own, my dear," she rasped into my ear, a bit louder than I would have liked. "Years ago, one afternoon, you told me that you were going to your room to lie down because you were feeling unwell. Later that evening I knocked on your door, because you had borrowed a book I was reading, and I wanted to get it back. When you didn't answer, I went in very quietly, tip-toeing to the table, reaching for the book. I could see the outline of your body under the bedcovers, and the dark swirl of your hair on the pillow." I shook my head and opened my mouth to question her narrative, but she held a finger to her lips.
"Let me explain, mon cher. As I closed my fingers around the book to lift it, it slipped through and went crashing to the floor, bouncing off the table as it went. I cried out and scooped it up, then turned to the bed to offer an apology, when I realised that you had not moved--not even a start. I stepped to the bed and stood over it, looking for breathing, horror striking my heart. I slowly pulled back the covers.
"Of course, you know what I saw. I saw a shirt, towels, handkerchiefs, and what must have been almost every piece of clothing you have, all bundled up into the shape of a sleeping man, topped with a brown wig. I stared at that figure for many minutes, thinking many thoughts, until I finally rearranged the bedclothes and left the room, closing the door behind me. It was quite difficult to concentrate on my book that evening." She pulled away, her eyes returned to the canvas, and her lips tightened into a wry smile.
"Ah," I offered, with some embarrassment.
"So, whenever you say you are going upstairs to your room and do not wish to be disturbed, I understand that perhaps that you are...not in your room at all?"
I turned toward her; she avoided my gaze, and I placed my hand on her shoulder.
"Please, don't think the worst, it was all quite innocent--"
"No, no, do not trouble yourself, I have learned to accept it. And, whenever you are staying here with us, I have never again gone into that room without your consent. Really, it does not disturb me any longer, for I know that this is how you are. You never could stand boundaries--especially with a mind such as yours. If it were not for the necessity of the human body I am sure your brain would find a way to explore on its own."
Her face was sanguine, but a great heaviness weighed down her smile, and her gaze drifted to the floor.
I promised her, with all sincerity, that I always used my best judgement and had never done anything to cause her shame. I asked her to swear, however, that she would conceal my actions from the master of the house, and she solemnly agreed. I thanked her warmly and turned to go, when she placed a delicate but firm hand on my arm.
"Can I ask you something, dear?"
"Certainly."
"It's your own business, I know, but I was just curious as to what happened."
I shook my head, uncomprehending.
"Last Sunday, after tea. Between you and Jane."
My mouth set firmly, and I was struck by our difference in height as I raised my eyes and stared vacantly over the top of her head.
"You don't have to tell me, dear. I know that something is not well, but Jane wouldn't speak about it, and...well, I was just wondering if there is anything I can do to help."
"That is not necessary, but thank you."
She put on her best benevolent face. "I know it can be difficult. Sometimes young ladies can harbour hurt feelings over silly things, and I could help you to smooth things over--"
"It's really quite simple," I muttered, with tight lips. "I'm a bit on edge lately, with performing at the Smith estate tonight, and all of the things weighing on my mind. I'm sure that when it is over I'll be able to concentrate on, eh..." I took in a sharp breath, and let it out with a weary smile. "I will speak with her soon. Does that answer your question?"
Her eyelashes flickered. "Tomorrow?"
"Possibly on Sunday, yes."
"You will let me know if there's anything I can do?"
I gave a cursory nod, and took a step backwards.
Madame produced her sweetest smile, raised a hand as if she were about to pat my head, and then turned away as she thought better of it.
—————
At the appropriate phase of the sunset I carefully went through my favourite back window, darted around the trees to a chosen spot down the road, and waited for Walker's cab to arrive, all the while avoiding the final struggling rays of sunlight.
As I placed the scuffed spectacles on my nose and held my violin case tightly under one arm, I wondered why I felt the burning of apprehension in my stomach. Surely the prospect of performing would not cause me such great distraction. Recognition was unlikely, since--like the hermit that I was--I was not known on sight to most in this community, and especially because I had slightly altered my appearance with a simple use of my hand-made cosmetics kit (a relic of a brace of stage performances). As the approaching cab rumbled up the road, I reassured myself that Madame had never been known to be deceitful, nor had she betrayed any confidence to this point. And even if she did, the annoyance of the Master could likely be appeased by a cheerful appearance at breakfast, and the playing of a couple of his favourite country airs.
Before stepping up to Walker's cab I made a quick, internal promise: after this evening was over I would never again put myself in a situation which called for gross deceit, and would present an honest life to others and to myself. I wasn't entirely convinced that it was necessary--or possible--but the thought did settle my stomach for the moment.
—————
"You are going to have the time of your life here tonight," uttered Walker behind a wide, toothy smile.
His statement barely registered in my ears as I was steadfastly gazing at the dark, imposing front doors of Smith's mansion, clutching my violin case in both arms. As the door swung open, the light crept out and glared like a halo around the figure opening the door, and the shadowed face spoke:
"Who's there: friend or foe?"
Walker leaned forward and mumbled an elaborate reply, to which the dark figure nodded, and stepped back into the light. Walker eagerly moved through the doorway and I followed slowly along behind, as if stepping onto the stage of a strange theatre into a play where I knew no plot, characters, or lines.
The setting was that of an intimate dinner party in a suite of large, lavish rooms, with enigmatic actors standing scattered in the wings, waiting to play their parts. I stood at Walker's side, briefly blinded by the burning points of the gas-lights (a rare thing in those days) and assaulted by intensely curious stares and whispers. I quickly recognised the shortish, solidly-built butler; he was the keeper of the well-fed dogs, and apparently as much at home providing drinks and chatting up the guests as tending the kennel outside. He directed us to a piano tucked in a corner as Walker begged pardon for our late arrival, and casually waved a bulging arm for us to commence playing.
The guests numbered about a dozen and were all gentlemen; most of them displayed an ostentatious dress style, carefully and colourfully clothed, with every detail addressed, every gesture considered, and, I was sure, every comment contemplated. I scanned my music with one eye darting around the room, watching for the appearance of the evening's host. Even in the midst of a Bach suite it was not difficult to notice Smith's entrance--indeed, difficult to ignore.
"Forgive me, gentlemen," announced a raspy but powerful voice from the far end of the room, "but I have been attending to the selection of the sherry."
Everyone in the room swallowed their current statements, turned gracefully and beamed thankfully in his direction. I peered over the rim of my spectacles and pointed the scroll of my violin at his face as if taking aim, and with a curious half-smile, I beheld the commanding figure of this authoritative, aristocratic, and well-fed gentleman. He raised a dusty bottle in one hand, controlling the attention of each man in the room as a conductor before an orchestra.
"It was a rather vexing problem, you see--it turns out that yesterday I drank the bottles I was to serve tonight!"
Our Sarabande was nearly drowned by the cackling of forced laughter.
"Drinks all around--Bond, make sure everyone has a drink."
The butler moved quickly over to collect the bottle. Only after I lowered my instrument at the end of the third movement did I notice him again, cutting purposefully through the small crowd with our esteemed host at his side. Smith approached the piano with a widely stretched smile and penetrating gaze.
"Ah, I see we have a special guest for this evening?"
Walker twisted around on the bench and jumped to his feet. "Yes, sir, what a pleasure to see you again! Thank you for allowing me to return to your lovely home--"
"Yes, Mr. Walker, yes, delightful as always. Bond just informed me that we are having a little extra musical pleasure for our soiree tonight." He peered at me with clear grey eyes. "And he is--?"
"Oh, this is a most talented violinist, who has had difficulty finding employment through no fault of his own, and was most interested in assisting me this evening. Mr. Holtz, the honourable Dr. Smith."
I nodded my respects, slightly taken aback by this powerful and strangely charismatic figure, who had an easy manner but a heavy and deliberate tone.
"A pleasure, truly," smiled our gracious host. "Very nice indeed, Mr. Holtz. The music is marvellous, of course, but I hope you will favour us with something a little more, hmm...vivacious, later on?"
"Certainly, sir," nodded Walker. "Mr. Holtz can play anything you like. He is most capable--"
"Lovely. And, of course, something by a French composer. I just love anything au Français. Wonderful. I'm looking forward to more." Dr. Smith swept away, leaving a faint scent of sherry behind him.
"Ah," sighed Walker, resting on the bench, "I'm glad he likes you."
"Mmm," I assented, watching Smith disappear behind a group of chattering men.
I took my position and nodded for Walker to continue the suite, as I gazed over the fingerboard around the dark, glittering room. The capricious gentlemen sipped sherry with arched brows and tittered joyfully at private jokes; nothing more exhilarating occurred, and my role was limited to the part of an intensely curious observer of obscure conversations.
The bottles of sherry were soon empty, and the tottering guests took their seats at the long dining table, where they were deluged with wine, soup, Pagannini, codfish, pheasants, Mendelssohn, pudding, and a Senallié sonata. At the passing of the port I took the opportunity to lower my bow, and the violin dropped to my waist; I begged Walker to continue playing while I took a much-needed rest. I shook my arms wearily as I laid my instrument carefully in its case underneath the piano, shifted quietly toward the back of the room, and eased through the doorway.
I then moved swiftly through the passage, my "fatigue" gone and my blood pulsing, searching for any signs of a private room in the dim light. A large, dark staircase opened up before me as the rumbling piano chords and murmuring voices faded into the background.
Striding firmly but quietly up the stairs, with a careful glance behind me, I began to breathe a little easier, and as I reached the landing I headed for the first door that took shape out of the shadows, not trusting that I had escaped unnoticed. I closed the heavy door behind me, which was thankfully silent. In the dim moonlight I could sense more than see that the walls were covered by bookshelves; I was in a small library. This was a fortunate find, in that it would allow me to investigate Smith's tastes and interests, possibly even find some private papers.
I stepped forward, my boots sinking into a deep-coloured rug as I moved toward a large, isolated desk. It was smooth and bare, with locked drawers. The window's light fell on a large bell-pull hanging near and softly lit the looming bookshelves, where a rolling ladder was poised and ready for use. I stepped carefully over to the shelves, which were filled with dust-coated old volumes, seemingly untouched for years. The shelves spread out above my head, and the ladder invited me to climb; I ascended smoothly and very slowly, my breath held, listening for creaks.
The books on the highest shelf were more recent--my touch revealed no dust upon them. The weakness of the moonlight prevented close investigation but a handy match from my tobacco pouch did a fine job of illuminating the subject; I pushed my spectacles low on my nose and scanned over the unfamiliar titles.
Remarkably, some of the bindings had been covered over with a paint near the shade of the book's cover, revealing only one or two words. On one volume I could see that the paint had chipped away and more lettering was revealed; I leaned forward and peered at the book's spine at a few inches' distance, close enough to discern the faint letters: Donatien de Sade.
"Have you discovered something of interest, Mr. Holtz?"
Smith's commanding, unmistakable voice rasped across the room.
I froze in place; my warm breath swept against the books with a hiss and brushed back over my lips. The match flickered and expired.
"My library contains some novel items, as you see."
His voice was strangely friendly and revealed no anger at my intrusion, but his consonants were slightly softened by alcohol. I heard his padded steps move behind me, and his lamp threw a shaking, stabbing light onto the dark shelves.
"Ah, yes!" said he. "You must have spotted the manual by the Marquis de Sade. A magnificent example. You are an admirer of the work as well, Mr. Holtz?"
I raised my head slightly, and realised that my mind was unusually and uncomfortably blank. "I am not entirely familiar with its contents," I remarked, in my heavy, halting German accent.
"Oh? But surely you must know of its--intent." Smith's voice grew colder. "Do you follow any of his practices?"
My brain spun around, searching for an answer. As I gripped the ladder and stared at this deliberately obscured binding, the painful error of my judgement struck me--not as a logical problem, but as a quiver in my stomach. The nature of this text was an utterly unknown entity, hidden away in the deep shadows of the bookshelves, and the name Marquis de Sade echoed faintly but uselessly in my ears.
Smith offered quietly, "Of course you are familiar with the description of the fried eggs, eaten with a fork, off the buttocks?" He guffawed, a brief rise in his voice, then continued in a low tone. "This is my favourite way to have breakfast in bed."
My mouth opened, my eyes still staring at the name in front of me, but all that left my lips was empty breath.
"Have you no opinion of the book, Mr. Holtz?" His voice contained a hard, probing edge.
It occurred to me that my position as a native German speaker provided a fair excuse for my ignorance. "I am not sure zat I understand..." said I, with appropriate hesitation.
"Haben Sie keiner Meinung über dem Buch?" replied Dr. Smith, smoothly.
That having failed, I decided that English was a less convoluted way of approaching the problem.
"I...I have not read it," I offered, trying to convey a casual air, but betraying the growing panic in my chest.
I could sense my host's forehead wrinkle with puzzlement. "You haven't? Have you not had the opportunity? Surely it has been translated from French to German. Perhaps I could read some selections to you, in private. Perhaps," he purred, "I could have some of the activities demonstrated for your benefit, such as the use of--"
"I have not desired to read it!" erupted from my lips.
I know that you must wonder: why could I not pretend, why could I not continue the charade? Please remember that I was young and inexperienced, and my methods were undeveloped. Shock had infected my brain, and my desperate mind failed to grasp a single scattered thought.
"Then," spoke Smith, with an ice-cold tone, "why are you here?"
The horror of discovery was overshadowed by the fear of losing control over my mind. I could say nothing--do nothing. The disturbing silence grew longer, and worsened the turmoil in my head until the book in front of me appeared to pulse like a living, threatening thing.
Then I heard a noise like a growl, a deep rumble from within the man standing behind and beneath me. I turned my head around, and as he saw my panicked expression, his face distorted with anger, with burning eyes staring through me. The polite and friendly façade of the gracious host had disappeared, replaced by the visage of a demon.
"Who are you? Were you sent by the council?" His voice smouldered with fury. "You have some reason to suspect me or my guests of some--offence?"
Everything was wrong now; everything was hideously wrong. It took all of my power to return his stare.
"You certainly do offend me," I declared, with a slight tremor in my tone.
He whirled around and moved to the desk, setting down the lamp and pulling a key from his pocket. "You may like to think--" Smith spat out the words as he unlocked the drawer-- "that you know what is normal and what is abnormal. Well, my friend, it is all a matter of taste."
Suddenly, in the context of this depraved lunatic, a vision of drowned, battered boys made sense. Exactly what this entailed, my mind refused to elaborate; but its truth would not be denied.
"I don't believe," said I, quivering, but with equal venom, "that murder is a matter of taste."
Smith stopped, looked up at me, and smiled grimly. In the glare of the lamplight I imagined I saw his face become red as blood. He thrust his hands into the drawer and lifted out a large, shiny knife, lifting and pointing it between my eyes as though aiming a pistol.
"Come down, Mr. Holtz," he commanded. "Come down now, and not another word."
I turned to face the shelves, and felt one foot at a time down the rungs, sliding my trembling hands deliberately down the rails. As I descended I heard the jangling and scraping sound of metal objects being removed from the desk drawer. I attempted to retrieve control of my emotions and convince myself that the situation was far from impossible; the other guests were fully aware of my presence in the house, and I doubted that Smith would be so careless as to threaten my life in such a situation. I considered the options available for escape.
These options narrowed, however, as he quietly spoke to someone who had just entered the room, apparently summoned through Smith's use of the nearby bell-pull. As both of my feet touched the floor Smith commanded me to keep my hands on the rails. I felt the other man press his body behind me as he reached over my head, took hold of my wrists and pulled my arms behind me. His strong fingers grabbed my sleeves and jerked the coat off my arms, and I felt his boot push it down around my ankles.
"Turn around," Smith ordered.
I heard the strange metallic jangling sound again, and hesitated to move.
"Now," Smith hissed, impatiently.
I complied, and twisted to face them. The small man before me--Bond--was muscular and blonde-haired, with the pink radiance of a young boy, though the deep lines in his face betrayed his age to be over thirty. He held a pair of rusty hand-cuffs.
"Hold your hands together," barked Smith.
Bond's hollow gaze focused on my outstretched hands as he snapped the hand-cuffs over my wrists. I held my hands out twisted and clenched but he squeezed my fingers closed, forcing the cuffs to their maximum grip. I, in fact, drew in my breath and winced to emphasise the painful pressure of the cuffs (a bit of acting, which seemed appropriate) and Smith appeared very pleased by my discomfort.
"My friend," he spoke slowly, enjoying the words: "I would now like to give you a taste of my own medicine."
Smith padded across the rug, the point of the long knife moving directly toward me; I tensed and braced my legs for a struggle. He slowly lifted his free hand up to my chest, and wrenched open the top button of my waist-coat, moving smoothly down as he pried open each one. He then placed the knife on my right shoulder, slid it toward my neck, and suddenly pulled upward--ripping through the fabric and closely avoiding taking my ear away with it. The small man dodged expectantly as Smith moved to repeat his trick on my left side, and then pulled away the pieces of the garment, dropping them to the floor. He stared closely into my face; his eyes were glazed and unfocused.
"A shame to ruin it. But, if you spare the rod, you spoil the child."
Bond grasped my wrists and dragged me to the middle of the room; he pushed my hands to the carpet, threw me to my knees, and then moved behind me. I heard a faint tinkling sound from the desk and looked up, catching a glimpse of Smith as he lifted a tangle of long cords wound into a circle, comprised of strips of thin leather and small metal beads. Smith moved behind me as he whispered an instruction to Bond, and then stood to my side, just within my vision. He cradled the knife in both hands and slowly twisted it, watching the point of light move up and down the blade.
I was unsure whether to plead for mercy or laugh out loud--everything now appeared to be comically desperate. I simply took a deep breath and braced myself for the expected impact. But no one moved; no noise was heard save for the shallow beat of my heart. As I waited, my chest tight with tension, I focused my vision through the hazy spectacles and onto the ornate rug beneath me. It was very soft and my knees sank comfortably into it. I stared down, kneeling stiffly, listening to the soft scraping of metal beads one upon another, wondering when the whip would fall. Lamp light fell sharply across the rug; the unusual colour patterns of gold and purple on a red background were intricate and distracting. At last, I released my breath and relaxed the tension in my back--and was hit with a hundred tiny fire-bullets as the crackle resounded in my ears.
I drew in a tight and painful breath as my fingernails dug into the carpet. This was more than I had expected. Another blow fell--the loud crack shot into every nerve of my body, and I felt the immense power of the man's arms behind the bite of the metal beads. The sensation was deep; it penetrated far beneath my skin and stopped just short of flooding into my head.
My mind raced at this bewildering state of affairs. As you may expect, my planned response would be to under-react to such treatment and stay collected, as it was in my power to do (my capacity to contain the expression of pain was always rather extensive). I instead followed another instinct and, to my own surprise, started in with an ever-growing series of wails and writhing as the flailing continued. In fact, I became quite caught up in my own performance, and the impact of the whip became less noticeable. I caught glimpses of Smith, who was hot with anger and possessed with pleasure simultaneously, and I knew then that the nature of this man was as dark as I could have ever imagined.
As the beating went on, however, I began to lose clarity in my thinking, and realised that I had no more sense of time--I could not guess how long it had continued. Perspiration dripped from my chin onto the rug; the pain enveloped my whole body, and each lash shot through my brain like a chain of tiny firecrackers. Do not over-dramatise this, my friend--my threshold of agony is different from yours, rest assured. But I knew that the continued intensity of the flogging would affect me to a point that would prevent an escape and a successful conclusion. So I began to shudder intensely with each blow, and sank into the carpet, depicting a surrender to physical breakdown. As I shook the spectacles from my face and started to feign unconsciousness, Smith spoke hoarsely, "Stop--enough here. Take him upstairs."
My hands were seized by strong arms and I was dragged across the rug to the open door, where I managed to struggle to my knees enough to slide along the polished floor. My mind was too cloudy at the moment to worry about anything but the looming staircase and managing my floppy legs, which were undamaged but weak from tension. For a moment I tried to scramble onto my feet, but quicker than I could flinch Bond released my hands and seized my ankles, swung me around, and hauled me feet-first through the passage like a sack of writhing kittens pulled toward a river.
As we approached the stairs, I focused my attention on the hand-cuffs, which were dulled from wear and abuse. Our odd procession did not decelerate but jerked up the wooden steps, where it was difficult to tell if the cracking sounds were emanating from the stairs themselves or from my rattling bones. Through the shaking of my vision I could see that the chain between the old cuffs was vulnerable and I directed some of the shattering pressure to my wrists. As I took a hard bounce, a chain-link burst--my hands flew apart as we lurched toward the top of the staircase.
Before another instant passed all of the following rushed through my mind: If I reached out and seized Bond's legs I might trip him up, break loose and run for it. But, if I could escape, what would I be leaving with?--no facts, no evidence, only outlandish behaviour and vague suspicion. I could not leave until I discovered exactly what was happening in this house of madness, and why five harmless boys had died as a result.
Frantically I held my hands together and looked upward to see if I had been discovered, but Smith was still forging ahead, and his assistant yanked me up the final step to the floor of the passageway. I twisted onto my back and let myself be pulled smoothly down the hallway as I managed to connect the broken links and squeeze them enough to continue the illusion of being cuffed--they should burst again with a concerted pull. I took several deep breaths and focused my mind as the blood, at last, returned to my brain.
I was dragged through a doorway onto a ruby-red rug and dropped to the floor. Smith's shiny boots squeaked toward my head, hissed across the carpet, and came to a stop behind me.
I twisted around and raised my eyes with frantic curiousity, trying to observe my surroundings; the bed-chamber was richly furnished, cluttered with jewel-coloured chairs, sofas and draperies, gently illuminated by the flickering lamp in Smith's hand. He fixed his narrow eyes on me and did not seem to breathe. I dropped my gaze and appeared as pathetic and physically damaged as possible, supposing that this was what he desired.
Finally, he inhaled, and let the breath out in a command: "Take this, and wait outside the door. Leave us alone."
The faint metallic rustle of the whip retreated behind me and the door snapped shut. I looked up; Smith set the lamp down on a dressing-table and brandished the long knife in his left hand. He began to pace slowly around me, speaking very quietly, almost to himself.
"I could take care of you--oh, certainly I could. A little fun, then a blow on the head, and it would all be over. Of course, your drowning would be rather more difficult to explain than the others." He looked around the room. "But perhaps I can silence you after all."
He stood still, lost in thought for a moment, pointing and twisting the knife in my direction. Through my half-shut eyes I could perceive the intensity of the dark passion that suddenly gripped him. His face flushed from the excitement of it. I could not imagine what that idea might be, even as he walked over to a small backless settee, and pulled it away from the wall.
"Make yourself comfortable," he instructed, gesturing at the settee. I struggled over and sat awkwardly on its edge.
His voice grew deeper as he intoned, "Lie on your stomach."
As I complied, he took my hands, held them to the floor, and in one motion, lifted a leg of the settee while moving the chain underneath, and released the leg to the floor with a loud thump. In his eyes, I was now effectively trapped, while I knew, or hoped, that one determined motion would break the chain and release me from this awkward position.
He walked smoothly over to the door, and I heard him turning the key in the lock.
"We don't want to be disturbed, do we?"
I glanced upward, and before he moved away I noticed that both the key-hole and his hands were empty.
"You are not one of us, my friend, although you were pretending to be. And why?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Because you suspected that something...something unsavoury was occurring, and you believed it should be stopped."
I heard his steps moving behind me as I stared down at the cuffs around my hands, the chain dragging on the rug.
"Well, of course, you cannot approve of what you do not understand."
With a few sudden jerks, my right boot was pulled off.
"Perhaps if you are more...experienced in our ways, you will not complain of our practices."
I then felt him seize my other ankle, and the boot soon hit the floor. For the first time in my life, I felt my reasonable mind slipping completely away--replaced only by a creeping horror, an unnameable frozen fear. I heard the rustle of clothing, and his coat sailed over my head and hit the floor before me.
"Who can tell...you may even enjoy it!"
My body went ice-cold, as did my brain. In a moment I lost my strength, my ability to play-act, and my sense of logic. Desperation ate its way into every muscle, gnawing away my strength. The only way to recover was to think, to act, to speak--
"Did you torture all of those boys as well, before you drowned them in your pond?" I retorted, my throat clenched, my false German accent gone. I immediately realised that the answer to this question was one I did not want to hear, and felt my stomach knot as I pictured my cold body floating in the murky water, with a cracked head and a lifeless stare.
Then I felt the point of a knife touch the base of my collar, pierce through my shirt, and start to travel slowly down my back. I felt the sting of my skin slicing open under the ripping fabric.
"You can't do this," I cried into the thick upholstery, my voice resounding in my ears, my mouth pressed tight against the fabric.
"No more back-talk," growled Smith, as the knife travelled languidly over the ridges of my spine. "Perhaps you need something in your mouth to help keep you quiet. Hmm...I have something in mind."
"You can't--you can't keep me quiet about this! What about your wife?--does she know? You can't hope to keep your wife quiet any longer!" I sputtered threateningly, squirming with pain.
He took a moment, then laughed raspily from deep in his throat, until he sounded almost to be choking.
"Oh my...my wife? My wife is standing outside the door, dear boy! And a handsome fellow he is, don't you agree? Ha!"
The knife hit the waistband of my trousers and stopped abruptly. "Ah," Smith whispered, "an inconvenience we shall soon be rid of..."
The noise that ripped from my throat drowned out the snapping of the metal links as the hand-cuffs broke apart, and the scream continued as I twisted my body around, kicking the knife out of my assailant's hand; a scream I hear echoed in the darkest moments of my darkest nights.
The details of my escape from that house were never clear in my mind, and even now, after so many years, I wish that they remain so. The desperate slashing of the knife, the pain and terror on Smith's contorted face, the wet blotches of his blood on my sleeve, and the thump of his body onto the floor, possess the dark, hidden corners of my memory; to this day, in my nightmares, I still search his blood-soaked clothes for the key to that door; again, I run faster than my pounding heart should tolerate, with a red-throated blonde man staggering in the shadows behind me, and a never-ending staircase dropping down before me; the crowd of men swarm toward me staring with horror, as I stumble through the blur of lamp-light and push through the huge wooden barriers into the darkness, where I run blindly, swallowed by the blackness of the night.
The questions, the same three questions run through my head repeatedly, and without cease--
How can I remove these cuffs from my wrists?
How will I find the strength to make it back home?
How do I explain...how can I tell...her?
As my bare feet churned against the black, coarse roads I could do nothing but consider the answers to these questions for the better part of an hour, an endless, eternal hour. And, in the waning hours of my life, I have too often been the slave of another question: if through the judgement of providence I were to be damned to Hell after my death, would eternity consist of this same one hour of my life repeated throughout the rest of time, down an endless road, in an eternal night--a night from which I will never escape?