The Things We Do to Our Friends(60)

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, you need to let the rigor mortis set in. Then you need to leave them for long enough to get tender, but not so long that the maggots find them.”

I was envisaging a maggot worming through the feathers when he reached out.

It was hard to assess how close he was, but then his hands were on me before I could gauge where the rest of him was.

Instinctively, I moved back. My head hit the musty body of a pheasant and I jerked forward, into him.

He caught me and pushed me past the pheasants, hard against the wall of the cellar; my back slammed against stone.

Searing pain in the form of a hard, quick punch to my stomach, and I was glued to the wall in agony.

His mouth was against my ear. “This is what you want, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

Then his hands were around my neck, squeezing until I was panting and pushing him away, but I couldn’t, I was weakening and my face burned. Pressure all over my head. I started to lose vision as cloudiness began to creep in on either side.

His breath. Hot on the side of my neck as his face was pushed into me, like he was inhaling my skin. I could feel him drive the hardness of his crotch against me.

The thought passed through my head that this was a fitting end for me.

There had been the episode in Périgueux, and my death in the Highlands would be the same. Reported on, but the details glossed over and buried because they were so unpalatable.

Instead of tightening for a final squeeze, his hands loosened and I pulled away, coughing. I could see again; I could see behind him very faintly—there was someone standing on the stairs.

It was Sorcha.

The Pig pushed past me, walking away as if nothing had happened, straightening his tie around his neck, staggering but with a swagger, his face almost jubilant, as if he’d been caught but didn’t really care. No proper acknowledgment of Sorcha, he just jabbed his shoulder against her, hard, as he moved past.

Once he’d left, she came forward, and she held me for a moment, supporting my body so I didn’t fall, seemingly waiting until we heard his footsteps going back into the ballroom. How long had she been there, I wondered?

“Come with me,” she said.

Any shyness I’d seen in her had disappeared; instead, there was a strong sense of urgency. She took me upstairs, but not to my bedroom. We were in what might have been her room.

“They’re all about to eat. You should stay here,” she said.

“I can’t. I need to leave.”

“That’s not a good idea,” she said calmly. “Stay. Rest. I don’t think you need to go to the hospital, but it’s going to be visible.”

What on earth had happened to that girl, the one who’d greeted us? Who’d been so intimidated by us? We’d pitied her because she was so shyly accommodating, but I should have given her more credit—she had known what was coming. She hadn’t known what we had planned, I don’t think, but she certainly knew what happened in this terrible house. She hadn’t been scared of us, she had been scared for us.

I wanted to ask her more about the men and what they did.

How did the parties usually play out?

How many times had this happened before?

But she was already gone, shutting the door behind her. I sensed her self-preservation as she placed distance between us. She was willing to help me as best as she could without sacrificing herself, which seemed fair. I’d need to rescue myself, but I couldn’t move, not yet.

The air was full of the fumes of meat that signaled dinner was being served, and Ava and Tabitha wouldn’t know where I was; they would be wondering what had happened to me. I lay and felt my breaths, tried to slow them and focus. There was a lot of pain.

I couldn’t have said how much time passed. It was long enough that I must have fallen into a light sleep, and I woke up to something licking my hand gently.

That disgusting monkey with tiny fingers clutching my wrist to steady itself; my arm was clammy with its spit. I almost screamed out, almost thrust the tight little body away from me so it would fly across the room. I managed to restrain myself. Instead, I got up and backed away from it and out of the room.

I couldn’t hear as much from downstairs, but I knew that I needed to find them. I could vaguely assess where I was and, although I was shaky, I half ran along the corridor.

So many doors. I tried to recall which one was Tabitha’s room. When I found it, I went straight in without knocking.

It was similar to mine: a simple single bed in the center of the room. A fire at the side was lit.

The thicker covers had been tossed off into a pile on the floor, and there was a sheet twisted around the two of them.

Tabitha’s head was flung back and her hair was spread about her, more manelike than ever. Her mouth was open in a silent moan and, between her legs, her hands gripped onto Tabitha’s thighs, was Ava. Tabitha’s eyes opened to meet mine, but I could barely look past her body. Laid out in the light, she looked almost like one of Klimt’s ornamental women, the warm glow of the room transforming her, and her skin seemed to move in quivering folds like a piece of satin. She became a writhing, gilded dress that night. A piece of art. Her face was flushed, but she didn’t say anything. She gave me what I thought was a lazy smile. But it might not even have been for me.

Ava didn’t turn at all. Tabitha closed her eyes again, and I backed out of the room, pulling the door shut.