LAST RITES

But then he had returned and turned the box over.

Sarah had spent the next day face down, unable to move her arms, not knowing when she'd ever be able to move again. She felt her captivity against her head, her feet, her back, her front. No water, no food, trapped in her own piss and shit.

She was tipped out of the box on the third day and allowed some water and a crust of bread. He had stood over her, the light from the room blinding her after those days in darkness, and she spent a few precious moments of movement trying to get used to the glare. He had said nothing. He just watched her, nothing to see but the hood, stood still, his arms by his sides. But then she was slotted back into the box. She struggled and screamed, begged not to go back in, but he was too strong for her.

This went on for another three days. No talk, no reasons given. Just captivity and silence.

But there had been the other person, the one in the room with her now.

Sarah could tell he was younger, from the excitement in his voice when he came into the room, calling her name, taunting, tormenting her. One day he turned the box on its end so that Sarah was upside-down, his groans of effort loud against the lid. She couldn't stop her body slumping down so that her neck bore her weight, unable to get her arms free to provide support. All that kept her in place was the tight dimensions of the box. Sarah wasn't like that for long, just a few minutes, but she thought she was going to suffocate on the weight of her own body pressing down on her, but he returned and threw the box back onto the floor.

Another game was banging the box with hammers. Just noise, the only break in the silence, but the hammers banged around her, thudding, too loud in the box.

Although the room scared her, she did not want to go back in the box.

‘What do you want?’ asked Sarah, looking up, a tremor to her voice.

He threw a bag onto the floor. Sarah looked. It contained clothes. Her jeans were clean, and the shirt too, and there was a jumper in there, home-knitted, warm-looking. Sarah climbed out of the bed and began to pull them on, almost smiling at the warmth. He left the room and then returned almost immediately with a plate of food, soup and bread, with coffee, along with something else.

Sarah looked at the food. ‘More kindness?’ she asked.

‘Nothing for free,’ he said. ‘But you must do something for me,’ and he held up a clear plastic bag.

Sarah saw the pen and paper inside, and then she noticed his latex surgical gloves and the way he was holding the bag away from himself.

‘Another letter?’ Sarah asked. She remembered the other times, the only respite from the box. She had gone along with it, hoping for some reward, maybe some comfort, but the words were disturbing, frightening.

‘I want people to know that you're still alive,’ he said. He sounded excited. Sarah noticed that he seemed twitchy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘But why like this?’ she asked. ‘They don't make sense.’

‘Because I say you should,’ he replied.

He put the food on the floor, out of her reach. He walked over to her and passed her the pen and paper. He then reached into his pocket and put some pre-prepared scrawl of his own in front of her.

‘You know what to do. Copy that and you can have the food.’

Sarah looked at him and she felt angry. It was time for a little victory of her own.

‘Let me eat first and then I'll do it.’

‘Do it now,’ he said, some irritation creeping into his voice. ‘If you don't, I walk out and you won't eat.’

Sarah looked down at the tray of food, the aroma of the soup making her salivate. She looked down at the scrawl she had to copy. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I'll do it.’ Tears began again. ‘Don't go. Please.’

The shuffling of his feet seemed to get faster, almost gleeful. He was enjoying it too much. She wiped away the tears, ashamed, and looked more closely at what she had to write. It made her shiver.

‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

He shook his head, and Sarah knew she had no choice, so she wrote, her cold fingers struggling with the pen.

She put the pen and paper back into the bag, which he held open for her. Once satisfied, he walked out of the door, holding the bag in front of him.

Sarah looked over at the food and felt her hunger rush back at her. She ate the soup quickly, the spoon clattering against her teeth, and then gulped down her coffee. It was hot and strong.

She lay on her back, feeling stronger, and looked at the grain in the wood of the beams that crossed the ceiling. She looked at nothing else for around twenty minutes, but then she realised that she could see the grain clearer than she could before. The grooves were sharper, showing shade. The light bounced around them, made them move like a slow pulse, rainbows flashing around each swirl, the knots moving in time with the noises that came from the speakers. She was transfixed, wanted to see where the lines went. They moved towards each other as she looked, seemed to get tangled, and then she shrank back as the beams came hurtling towards her, as if the ceiling was collapsing, her arms over her eyes. But there was no pain. She looked up again, and saw that the beams were still there. But they were vibrating in time with the heartbeats that blasted out of the speakers. She scuttled backwards, scared, feet kicking against her blanket as she sought refuge. But there was no safe place to hide. She ended up on the floor, on all fours, her eyes darting around, looking at her cell. She saw that all the walls were moving, beating in time with the noise, and then in time with her own heartbeat, which went faster as her fear grew. The stones of the wall started to blur together and grow darker, making shadows that seemed to blot out the glare from the spotlights.

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