He climbed back into bed and lay staring at the ceiling for three hours, nursing the chloroform like a hot water bottle until she suddenly sprung up and shuffled down the hall. He got up and hid behind the bedroom door, dampened rag at the ready. His heart was racing, another result of too much downtime. He very nearly launched into the air when he heard the toilet flush, and she padded around the corner into the bathroom. His body vibrated at the sound of the tap turning. The water seemed to be running for an eternity, like the seconds ticking by on a defective clock. He put this down to anal retentiveness at first, recalling the centimetre perfect spacing of the magazines on her coffee table, and the three trays that stood on the shelf next to her front door that separated her mail into bills, letters and junk. She wouldn’t just wash; she would scrub like a surgeon. Given her repulsion at being touched after sex, he was amazed she didn’t shower as soon as he pulled out of her.
He peered through the crack of the door. The bathroom light was still on.
There was no pride in being the hired help for a big organisation; only the sense of achievement that awaited him from a job well done. But wasn’t that the same thing? He was so busy being patient, and pondering this very question that it didn’t occur to him to wonder why even the most anally retentive person in the world would take half an hour to wash their hands. Pain lashed the soles of his feet as the plush pile beneath them burst into flames. He screamed and dove forward.
Something came at him.
Something wooden.
When he woke up, he was sitting in her bathtub. One hand was cuffed to the hot tap, the other to the door knob. The smell of shampoo hung in the air despite the fact that the exhaust fan had been on for hours, judging by the goose bumps he saw on his arms. She was perched on the toilet seat, reading a novel. He knew full well any attempt to free himself would be futile, but that didn’t stop him from trying to pull his hands out. The right cuff hit the door, and the resultant thwack roused his captor. She looked up, calmly dog-eared the corner of the page she was on, closed the book and put it on the floor.
‘Not mine. A friend who was into his stuff sort of leant it to me and, I have to say, I can see where she was coming from. I’ve always liked a good scare; haven’t you?’
His attempt to scream was thwarted when his mouth wouldn’t open all the way, and an excruciating pain shot up from his jaw to his inner ear. She got up and came over to him.
‘I wouldn’t,’ she said as she sat down on the side of the tub, ‘I broke your jaw after I knocked you out. Well…’ she pointed to the sink, which was currently housing half the contents of his briefcase, including his hammer. ‘…I had a little help from your Mr Smacky there.’
She leaned down and kissed him.
‘I expect you didn’t feel that. I may have inflicted a teensy bit of nerve damage. Shouldn’t worry you too much though; it’s not as if you’re the romantic type.’
He stared at her, agog. She smiled.
‘I bet you want to know how I made you.’
He could only stare.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
