All Fall Down. Mark Edwards

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СКАЧАТЬ she whispered, and before he could say a word she had gone, closing the door behind her.

      Shocked, he pulled off the blindfold. He was in a small room with a single bed. A candle burned on a low table. He tried the door. It was locked. There was a narrow adjoining room that contained nothing but a toilet and a basin. No way out.

      He knocked, shouted, tried knocking on the window too. What the fuck was this? Some kind of kinky game?

      Or was some guy – Cindy’s boyfriend – about to arrive with a gun or a hunting knife?

      He felt in his pocket for his cellphone, then remembered he’d left it in the car.

      After a while he stopped yelling and sat down on the bed. He didn’t feel horny any more. Eventually, he went to sleep.

      In the night, he thought he sensed someone standing over him, felt something on his face. But when he opened his eyes, there was no one there. Just the locked door.

      When he woke up, there was a basket of food on the floor: fresh bread and fruit, a pitcher of OJ. He ate and drank greedily. Then he banged on the door again, not really expecting anyone to answer. But within seconds, Cindy stood before him, as beautiful as he remembered.

      ‘What in hell is going on here?’ he demanded, but she simply smiled that beatific smile of hers and said, ‘Relax, John. You’re here to rest. To get better.’

      ‘But I’m not sick,’ he protested. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

      She shook her head like that was the saddest, most misguided thing she’d ever heard.

      Then she’d sat with him for an hour, talking to him, soothing him with words that he was barely listening to. He was too busy staring at her, aching to touch her creamy skin, to stroke that hair. Aching to fuck her. He felt like a teenage boy on a first date.

      But she wouldn’t let him touch her. After that hour, she went away. Later, she came back with another tray of food, which she set on the floor before leaving without a word. He banged on the door some more but nobody came.

      This pattern continued for three days. Evenings alone in the room, going mad with his thoughts, before crashing out on the bed. Fresh food and drink left by his door. And that sense, in the night, of someone standing over his bed.

      On the morning of the third day, he awoke with a scratch in his throat and a different kind of ache that made his skin shiver and feel sore to the touch. His head hurt too, and he kept sneezing.

      He tried knocking on the door but he felt too rough. He wanted to go back to bed.

      Funny, he’d thought as he lay down, if my life wasn’t so shit maybe I’d be busting my balls trying to get out of here. But he actually liked it here – especially the hour when Cindy came and sat with him. It was a kind of instant Stockholm syndrome.

      And then, that evening, she came and told him it was time to leave.

      ‘What?’ he asked, sniffing.

      ‘You’ll be better now,’ she said.

      ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

      Then she held out the money. Five hundred bucks. He looked at it like a dog eyeing a steak.

      She put the blindfold back on him and led him down the stairs. He had a feeling there were other people around, could hear them breathing. But by the time he was seated in his car, and Cindy removed the blindfold, the door was shut and there was nobody in sight.

      ‘Go, John Tucker,’ she said, pressing the money into his hand.

      ‘Come with me?’ he asked, though he knew she would say no.

      ‘Om Shanti, John.’

      The highway was dark, the moon full overhead. One day, he guessed, he’d look back at this strange episode and laugh. For now, though, he only felt confused and sick. He wanted to get back to LA, find a beer and a bed. Maybe rent himself one of those crack whores to unleash his frustration on. He turned up the radio when an old Nirvana tune came on. Then he saw the sign.

       EEL CREEK RESERVATION AND CASINO. 1 mile.

      Like an alcoholic watching whisky splash into a tumbler, the compulsion hit him in the gut.

      Casino.

      He’d been to casinos on Indian reservations before. They were a poor substitute for the Class A drug that was Vegas, but they were still places where men like him could change their lives with one stroke of luck, one clever play.

      He became acutely aware of the five hundred dollars burning in his pocket.

      No, he told himself. Keep driving. Get to LA, get yourself holed up, you’re going to need that money. It’s all you have.

      But the itch had started. By the time he was only half a mile from the reservation, his whole body was crawling with it. Surely, whispered the devil on his shoulder, there’s no harm in dropping in, seeing what it’s like? He could set himself a limit of fifty dollars, leave the rest locked in the glovebox.

      Here was the turning. The moment to decide. He sneezed yet again. Didn’t he deserve some pleasure, some fun, especially when he was feeling so lousy, after spending half a week imprisoned in a tiny room? Just a couple of spins of the roulette wheel and then he’d be out of there. There was no harm in it.

      He signalled right.

      He entered the casino with the whole five hundred dollars in his pocket. He wasn’t going to spend it all though, no way. Besides, he felt lucky tonight. He was tingling.

      Bored staff looked him over coolly as he passed into the dark interior of the casino, the electronic clatter of the slot machines making the tingles turn to tremors.

      He paused by a slot machine, where an obese woman sat in a motorised wheelchair, joylessly feeding coin after coin into its hungry mouth. Across the other side of the dim room lay the object of his desire. He strode over, trying to ignore the scratching in his throat, the heat around his temples. Since getting out of the car and into the air-conditioned building, his flu had felt considerably worse. But, fuck it. Nothing was going to stop him enjoying tonight.

      The dealer at the roulette table was a tall, good-looking Indian guy of about thirty. He looked impassively at John as he took a seat. A waitress came over and took his order, JD on the rocks.

      ‘Evening, sir,’ said the dealer.

      ‘Evening.’

      John exchanged one hundred dollars for chips. As he handed over the cash, he sneezed, spraying the dealer with spittle.

      ‘Shit, I’m sorry, dude.’

      The dealer blinked but didn’t show any emotion. John sipped his drink, the burn of the whisky easing the soreness in his throat, thought about his strategy, and ended up doing what he always did.

      Bet on black.

      Two hours later, he emerged from the casino in a daze. He felt hot and dizzy. СКАЧАТЬ