Normal: The Most Original Thriller Of The Year. Graeme Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Oh, right, like you care.” She scowled. “What, you’re not violating our human rights enough so you’ve got to watch us on the toilet now, as well, right?”

      It actually hadn’t crossed my mind. “Erica, I have no interest in watching either one of you on the toilet. And if I did, I’d get a much better view if I just stood in there with you so, all things considered, I wouldn’t concern myself too much with that if I were you.”

      “Where’s Kerry going at the weekend?”

      “That’s none of your business. If Kerry wants to know, Kerry can ask me when she’s stopped dribbling like a baby.”

      “What are you going to do to her?”

      “Look...” The four screws I was holding between my inturned lips fell out, plink-plinking down each step of the ladder and scattering across the floor. “Shit, now look what you’ve done.”

      “How did I do that? I’m over here, locked in this fucking cage.”

      I allowed my diminishing patience to show across my face. “Erica, is there anything else I can do for you?”

      She seemed to take the hint. She looked around her for a moment or two, deep in thought, before her eyes settled on the quivering wreck in her arms. “Yes,” she finally replied. “We could really do with some soap.”

      It took me until just past one in the morning to install the cable, which had necessitated among other things the drilling and filling of two walls and a ceiling. By the time I’d figured out how to feed the signal into the television, it was almost two o’clock and, unsurprisingly, both subjects were asleep. Erica had not yet lowered herself to sharing the bed, and was tucked up most cozily. She had, however, managed to throw Kerry a blanket.

      I tuned in over breakfast on Wednesday to find them both awake. I got the distinct impression from Erica’s demeanor that the hooker’s cold turkey had been first to rise. There was no conversation, no sound at all but for a soft, breathy whimper. After three minutes of inactivity Erica rolled off the bed and approached the toilet, whereupon she turned around and glared up into the camera. She gave it a dismissive wave, pointed at the bowl and stagily covered her eyes before taking a step back and hooking her thumbs over the top of her knickers. I flicked over to the BBC breakfast program and ate my toast.

      By Wednesday evening, the cuddling and the rocking were history. After refusing a dinner of mushroom tagliatelle, Erica returned to bed to stare silently at the ceiling, while the junkie threw up and paced around the cage, clawing at her own arms with her broken nails. This made for uninspiring viewing, and I soon turned my attention to the sudoku in the newspaper. My glances at the screen became increasingly infrequent, and by ten o’clock I was reaching for the remote, rueing the time and money wasted on such a poor source of entertainment. And right then, swallowing a yawn with my finger poised over the off button, I witnessed a moment that, somehow, I sensed would come back to haunt me.

      Unmoving, unblinking, she spoke so calmly and softly that mere seconds earlier, for better or worse, I would have heard only the rustling of my newspaper. “Bitch,” she said, “if you don’t sit down and shut up in the next five seconds, I will come over there and I will fucking kill you.”

      Erica had begun to unravel.

      * * *

      On Thursday at 06:23, Erica graciously prepared her cellmate a bowl of cereal, using the fresh milk I’d provided. Kerry was lethargic and unresponsive, and at 06:46 had to be spoon-fed.

      At 09:42, Kerry collapsed into a bout of uncontrollable shuddering accompanied by loud, breathless sobs. Erica wasted no time in slapping her violently across the face and demanding that she pull herself together.

      At 13:39, the event was repeated, though this time one slap became two and set off a period of intense wailing. After twelve minutes, the hooker was silenced with a swift kick to the abdomen.

      At 13:59, Erica sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands and silently wept for seven minutes, before letting herself down with, “Kerry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Which just made Kerry cry harder.

      At 18:02, after an uneventful afternoon, I entered the basement and was greeted with the now-standard scene: Erica horizontal and staring, Kerry bunched up in a twitchy little ball. Neither spoke a word to me.

      Thursday evening passed without further incident, and both Erica and Kerry were sound asleep by ten. With the dawn on Friday, however, came a perplexing turn of events. The hysterical hooker failed to wake up.

      In her place come 6:00 a.m. was a quiet, still, steely-eyed bird of prey. She sat on her haunches against the side of the cage, silently watching Erica as she murmured and stirred, rolled slowly out of bed and headed straight for the toilet. I buttered my toast.

      Erica regarded Kerry through sleepy eyes and paused only for a split second before shrugging to herself and snatching up the cereal packet. “Where’s your bowl?” she yawned.

      “I’ve already eaten.”

      The flat, aggressive tone made her pause longer this time. Finally, she moved to Kerry’s side, knelt down beside her, leaned in just a little too close. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked with what at least sounded like genuine concern. “You look a little bit...odd.”

      Kerry wasn’t waiting for a slap this time. In the blink of an eye, she curled the fingers of her right hand and lashed out with her jagged, splintered nails, carving three savage gashes across the width of Erica’s cheek. “Get out of my face, bitch,” she snarled as she rose to her feet.

      Erica fell back, the box slipping from her hand, Rice Krispies spraying out across the floor. “Jesus!” she gasped, kicking out at the rubber matting, propelling herself backward until she could reach to pull herself up on the metal bed frame. “What the fuck was that?”

      “You’re a selfish, patronizing bully, and I’m sick of the fucking sight of you.” Kerry was circling now, her eyes burning into Erica’s like red-hot needles.

      “Oh, that’s rich.” Erica pressed her hand to the side of her face; blood trickled between her fingers and dripped onto her bare toes. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing, girl.”

      “Oh, yeah?” Hackles truly up now, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Here we go. “I’ll fucking—” She was on Erica in an instant, knocking her off balance and coming down heavily on top of her. Erica, flailing, grabbed a handful of hair; she jerked Kerry’s face back and pulled it down violently against her own forehead. Claws and teeth flashed.

      I was there inside a minute. “Enough!” I shouted, throwing open the cage door and pulling Erica by the scruff of her neck from atop the now-prone hooker. And then, without hesitation, I took her by the arm and hauled her from the cage.

      Erica made no attempt to struggle as I led her in her underwear across the frost-slick gravel of the driveway. She stepped obediently inside the house, looked to me for directions, followed me silently up the stairs to the bathroom.

      She sat still on the side of the bath while I soaked a wad of cotton wool in TCP. She made no sound, beside a sharp intake of breath as I pressed it to her cheek. She was patient while I mopped the blood and applied a gauze, secured it in place with a cotton swab and an Elastoplast. And after a fleeting, longing glance at the gleaming bathtub, СКАЧАТЬ