After the Darkness Page 3

  Bruce thought I was being rude, making sly comments about Reuben’s house beneath our host’s nose. He glanced back at me. I lifted my eyebrows.

  On the other side of the partition was a desk. It was bare. The office chair was ergonomic. There were no chairs for guests. Beside the desk was a small bench, and on it an espresso machine. Reuben took two mugs from below the bench.

  ‘Tea, Trudy?’ he said. He took out a teabag and held it up for me to see.

  ‘I will have a coffee, thanks.’

  ‘Now how did you manage that?’

  >‘A person will usually lean towards the more elusive thing,’ Reuben said. ‘Given the choice between something they can see and something they can’t, they’ll more often than not be drawn to the thing kept out of view.’

  ‘Actually, I’m pretty right, thanks.’

  Bruce laughed. ‘Now she’s being stubborn.’

  ‘A drink of water?’ Reuben said.

  ‘No, thank you, I’m good.’

  Reuben put my cup away. I could tell I had annoyed him. He rested his wrist on the sink edge and rubbed his forefinger over the back of his thumb. His hands were big, his nails short and clean. The cuffs of his shirt were now rolled back and I was close enough to see that his forearms were hairless, as though they had been waxed. I noticed, too, that Reuben smelt like his house – faintly antiseptic. There was a small scar on his earlobe from an old piercing.

  ‘How do you have your coffee, Bruce?’

  ‘However it comes is fine.’ Bruce took one of our business cards from his shirt pocket and put it down on Reuben’s desk. ‘That’s us there.’

  ‘Oh, please pass that here.’

  Bruce handed over our card. It was navy with white print and a white border. It had MAD Property Developers in bold letters across the top. Our names and contact details were below. It wasn’t a very flashy card, and in Reuben’s hands it seemed even less so. ‘Mum And Dad property developers,’ Bruce explained self-consciously. ‘As in Mum And Dad: M-A-D.’

  ‘People remember the name,’ I said.

  Reuben turned the card over. There was a picture of one of our apartment buildings on the back. ‘Very good.’ He put the card down on the sink and tapped his fingers on it, as though not to forget it.

  I wandered over to the nearest window and glanced down at our car. It looked small and lonely. From up here I could see the property entrance and a stretch of road either side of the front gate.

  ‘The gate is shut.’

  I’d spoken over the top of Bruce and Reuben’s conversation. They were finishing their drinks and discussing the size of the purlines used in the roof. They stopped talking.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s just that I noticed the front gate is shut now.’

  Bruce walked up and looked out the window.

  ‘See?’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ Reuben said, ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to come and kick-start my inspiration. At the moment people inspire me. I’m in a strong people phase – bodies, thoughts, aggressions, instincts, those kinds of things. It’s interesting you mentioned rules earlier. I’m always interested in those – who gets to set them and what it takes to break them.’ He smiled at us. ‘It’s the biggest thing of all, don’t you think? To make a person break their rules and forever change their habits?’ Reuben held out his hand to take Bruce’s empty cup. My husband frowned openly at the other man’s evasive explanation. He gave over his coffee cup.

  Bruce and I watched Reuben abruptly leave. Once he was gone we looked at one another.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said.

  ‘He must have driven out and shut the gate; he wouldn’t have had time to walk out and do it.’

  ‘His face has changed. He looks different.’ I tried to put my finger on what had altered. ‘He’s uglier,’ I said.

  ‘Unless it’s remotely controlled from inside the house?’

  ‘It’s like we’re his latest project. You should have seen the way he looked at you. He gave you the big head-to-toe.’ We stopped at the top of the spiral staircase. I ran my gaze over Bruce the same way Reuben had, exaggerating the leering aspect of it. ‘Hel-lo, sailor.’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘He did. Maybe not quite like that – but definitely giving you the once-over. If he makes one of those devil sculptures based on you, I won’t be happy. Artists should have to get permission for things like that. He shouldn’t be able to use unsuspecting people for his inspiration. Not if he’s making red-eyed monsters.’

  Bruce stepped back from the staircase.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Bit of vertigo,’ he admitted.

  He took a breath and started down the staircase.

  I followed him closely. My shoes were casual flats. There was no tread on the soles and I gripped the rail carefully. Bruce was moving with even more caution. His knuckles on the railing were bony-white and his wrists were flexed.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘My heart is racing.’

  ‘You’re not usually afraid of heights?’

  We shuffled down the stairs like a couple of retirees. If our children had been there they would have teased us unmercifully. Bruce breathed in deeply as he reached the ground floor. He shook out the tension in his arm. The sound of the ocean was clearer, but without the view it was hard to tell which direction it was coming from.

  The area we were standing in was long and empty. Cold and unfriendly.

  ‘I don’t remember this when we came up the stairs. This wall wasn’t here …’ I turned around. ‘Or maybe it was this one.’ We were in what had been an open area off the foyer, yet the dimensions of the space had been changed. It was as though a new wall had been slid across to block the way through to the foyer. There was a door down the other end. I started towards it.

  Bruce hung back. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he said.

  I turned. He swayed. I ran back and grabbed hold of him.

  ‘I really don’t feel good …’

  He backed up to sit down on the bottom step.

  I knew right then. ‘Oh God, Bruce.’

  ‘Is it just me? Do you feel all right?’

  ‘Get up, we’ve got to go.’

  ‘Give me a minute …’

  ‘Stand up, Bruce, stand up now.’ I tried to pull him to his feet. My husband’s arm was heavy and limp. His breath was becoming slow. He leaned forward.

  He went down that quick.

  ‘Bruce!’

  I took hold of him under both arms, trying to sit him back up. His pupils were dilated, his lips parted. I tried to lift him into a standing position. I wasn’t strong enough.

  ‘Bruce, stand. Please stand.’

  ‘I locked the car …’ he said, confused.

  The door at the end of the room opened, and Reuben came through into the narrow space. Bruce didn’t lift his head. Reuben was holding a small cylindrical object in his hand. I didn’t think quickly enough. My brain couldn’t make the leap; I was still on holiday, sightseeing with my husband. Reuben walked up to me and sprayed the contents of the can into my face. I squeezed my eyes shut to protect them; too late though.

  ‘You should have drunk the coffee, Trudy. It would have been a whole lot less painful.’

  I stumbled blindly to one side and fell against the wall. The burning was intense. The idea that we were being attacked occurred, but it didn’t panic me, not yet. I simply thought, This man wants to hurt us. It came to me through the white-hot pain of my eyes. They were on fire. I lunged forward, groping the air – an involuntary action. The floor tipped. I was pushed, and fell backwards against the wall. Shielding my face with my hands, I opened my eyes. It hurt, fiercely, but I managed to see that Bruce was still sitting on the bottom step, his head lowered, his body limp, and that the door was ajar. Reuben had left the room. My eyes were burning too much to keep open. I got on all fours and crawled in Bruce’s direction. I knelt and ran my hand over his knees, up his arms, over his back.
His breathing was shallow. The taste of the chemical spray was bitter in my mouth and burning at the back of my throat. My lips were hot. There was no chance of opening my eyes again. The pain was unbearable.

  ‘Bruce!’ I tugged on his clothes.

  For the next few seconds I pushed and pulled my husband, trying to break through his haze. In dragging him from the step I was able to set in motion an instinct to crawl. He got down beside me and began moving. I remembered my phone. I stopped and took it from the pocket in my skirt. My hands were shaking so much I considered putting it away in case I dropped it and couldn’t find it again. In my darkness, I ran my hands over the touch screen. I would have to open my eyes to use it. ‘Bruce, stay where I can feel you.’

  I started blindly tapping the phone, trying to bring up any number, dial anyone. The phone was suddenly gone from my hands. It seemed to disappear. I snatched at the air, as though the phone might be levitating in front of me. I felt my lap and the floor under me. Then it dawned on me that Reuben was there. He was standing over me. The phone had been taken from my grasp. My insides contracted. I became very still. There was the sound of footsteps, moving away from me again, growing softer. A door was closed, and, faintly, very faintly, I thought I heard a conversation.

  Bruce burrowed his head into my lap. I rested my hands on his hair. My mouth had filled with watery saliva. I was frightened of swallowing it, in case the chemical burnt my throat. I leaned to the side and spat. Puckering hurt my lips. Mucus was running from my nose. Maybe Reuben wanted to watch us like this. Maybe all he wanted was to watch us crawl around his house. I began to whine with uncertainty and sadness – sadness, even then, so early on.

  We started again in the direction of the door. The polished concrete floor was cool beneath my fingers. Something cracked under my knee. I realised I’d knelt on my dropped sunglasses. I tried again to open my eyes. They were two burning pockets of pain. The agony spiked when I eased my lids apart, but I could see though. My sight was blurry, but I wasn’t blind. The intensity of the pain caused me to grimace and grit my teeth. I crawled, holding onto Bruce’s shirt with one hand. I tugged to remind him to keep on coming. I tasted blood. My nose was bleeding, or my mouth. I must have looked like a rabid dog – on all fours, red squinting eyes, opened-mouthed and drooling, my nose dripping. That Reuben wanted to see this, or that he needed this as a source of inspiration, caused a pressure in my groin – the same place I had felt fear as a little girl; confronted by a shop owner, a stolen packet of Tic Tacs in my pocket. It was the feeling of being small and defenceless, at the mercy of a bigger person.

  When I got to the far wall, I began feeling for the door. I told myself it would be open, and on the other side would be a basin, and once I rinsed my eyes I would be able to see, and we would regain some control. We would flee. Bruce slipped from my grasp. One second I had a handful of his shirt, the next it was gone. I snatched the air to get him back. I called his name, felt frantically for him, and opened my eyes wider. My head twisted with the pain. I saw Reuben take Bruce through the door. Bruce was hunched over, being easily led. The door closed behind them. I heard it lock.

  ‘No!’ I screamed. ‘No, no, no!’

  There had to be an explanation. The spray in my face had been accidental. An ambulance had been called. Reuben would come back and help me. He’d locked the door for my own safety. It felt wrong because it was wrong. I also knew that it was real.

  Why hadn’t something this big revealed itself to me? Shouldn’t I have had some kind of forewarning? I got up, tried the door handle for good measure; the door was definitely locked. I used the wall, and felt my way around to the base of the spiral staircase. I climbed the stairs on hands and knees, peering though the tiniest slits my eyelids could make. My eyes were hurting less. The stinging was receding, leaving in its place a scratchy pain, a gritty soreness. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I paused and wiped my face clean on my skirt.

  Time was hard to judge. Surely it took no more than five minutes to get to the top floor, but it could have been much longer, or no time at all. I got to my feet. I stumbled towards the back window and squinted down at the car park. Our car was moving. I couldn’t make out the driver, or see if there was anyone standing on the asphalt. The car was backed up into the garage. Seeing it disappear frightened me. The keys had been in Bruce’s pocket. There were thoughts in my head I didn’t dare access. I made my way over to the desk and the coffee machine. I pulled the cord from the socket and threw the heavy machine over the balcony and down into the foyer. It plummeted and smashed on the molten glass floor below. This was a rebellious and fruitless act, but it gave me an idea.

  I went to the glass sculpture nearest to the window and tried to push the sculpture over. It was bolted down. I tried some of the other sculptures, but they were all bolted down. I peered around for other heavy objects. There were none. I had perhaps wasted the coffee machine. The desk chair was all there was left. It was the wrong shape and too light, but I lifted it and threw it at the window. It bounced off. The window flexed. I went to the balcony and looked down at the foyer. Escape seemed so close. I tried with my poor vision to judge the drop. Was I being made to jump? Was the game to see what terrible thing I would do to myself, to be free?

  I went around throwing the chair at the sculptures. Terror nipped and gnawed at me, threatening to take over. My body ached and my breath rasped in and out. Thirst became an issue. My arms became too tired to lift the chair, but I lifted it anyway. I was keeping my mind busy and making a racket. It was all I could do.

  The head of one of the sculptures snapped off and dropped with a thud onto the floor. It was the size of a saucepan, and the shape of one too, but with the frying section filled in and solid. I threw the head at the window. It hit and dropped to the floor with a heavy thump. I picked up the head and threw it again, with all the might I could muster. This time the window cracked. But when I went up to examine it, squinting with my blurry vision, I saw the glass had some kind of protective coating. The crack was contained, like in a car windscreen. I pushed against the window, but its full strength remained.

  Someone was coming up the spiral staircase.

  Reuben came into the gallery as though everything was unfolding pleasantly enough, but I sensed his irritation. He looked at the crack in the window. His mouth moved – I think he swore beneath his breath or licked his lips. I was looking at him through two thin blurry slits.

  ‘Where’s my husband?’ I said. ‘Where have you taken him?’

  ‘He’s downstairs.’

  ‘What do you want with us?’

  ‘It’s not as bad as you think, Trudy. If you cooperate, I’m going to let you go.’

  Although I didn’t believe him, his words were a glimmer of light. I lowered myself and sat with the glass head in my hands and my back against the window. I pretended I couldn’t see.

  Reuben looked around the gallery at the sculptures. He walked towards me. I saw him looking at the glass head in my lap. There were wet patches down the front of his shirt. The toes of his boots were splattered with some kind of liquid. He slowed his steps and leaned down to look in my face. I concentrated on not changing my expression. He stared at my eyes. By now they were swollen and my lashes had dried together. It was no effort to squint; my eyes did so naturally. He took a length of black material from his pocket, and then seemed undecided what to do with it. He curled it back and forth around his knuckles while he thought.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said. I took from this that he was more interested in hurting Bruce. He confirmed it. ‘I’m not interested in you.’

  I kept my head still. In my mind I could picture his face better than I could see it. The folds in his skin that had seemed loose and malleable were in fact hard and fixed in concrete; each line in his face was carved in, with a scalpel. His face, mask-like, didn’t give, shift, or change.

  ‘It works in your favour if you do what I say.’

  I put the glass head down b
eside me and got to my feet. I was aware of not over-doing the blind thing – I’d played pin the tail on the donkey, I’d watched others blindfolded. I knew how easy it was to spot a faker. I stood with my hands by my side. Reuben pulled my wrists together behind my back and tied them. He wasn’t rough. He urged me forward. At first I thought he was guiding me in the direction of the balcony and that he would push me off, to fall to my death on the molten floor, but he brought me around and we went to the head of the spiral staircase. He held my arm the whole way down. He didn’t waste words on me now. At best I was a device to gain more from Bruce.

  4

  As Bruce had guessed, we had overlooked the workshop during our tour of the house. Reuben took me through a concealed door in the kitchen and into the garage. Our car was parked to one side of the empty double bay. The garage door was closed. Reuben stopped me in front of a large sliding door in the back wall of the garage. The door was chained and padlocked. I could hear Bruce shouting for help in the room. His voice was muffled.

  When I was younger, walking into certain places – a new classroom, a next-door neighbour’s lounge room, a boyfriend’s bedroom – I would get slightly dizzy, my eyes would lose focus, my hearing would dim, and my sense of smell would intensify. I would stand vaguely dumbstruck for a second. Then I would move and things would return to normal. I might still be nervous, but all my senses worked. That feeling from my school years returned as I entered the workshop.

  Reuben had tied Bruce to a long steel cabinet that ran half the length of the room. The unit was taller than Bruce, and deep, with large sliding doors. Bruce was facing it, his hands spread well apart and secured at the top of the cabinet. He had a black hood on his head; it made me think of the Abu Ghraib prison pictures, although Bruce was in a brightly lit workshop at the back of someone’s garage. Between his feet was a metal rod attached to manacles, which were fixed around his ankles. This kept him from bringing his feet together or putting them any wider apart. He was not spread-eagled; it was a more casual pose, but all the right muscles were taut, the male shape clearly defined. Bruce was dressed, but his shirt buttons were undone and his jeans were open at the waist, sitting low on his hips as though they’d just been roughly tugged back up. Both his jeans and shirt were wet. My feeling was that Bruce remained half-dressed for a reason: to prolong anticipation.