She lay, as it were, between two worlds. One in which soft voices spoke to her as they dripped food into her mouth and washed her body. That was a nice feeling. Why had she ever been afraid of her body? But had she been afraid of it? Oh, yes; she had in that other world that kept coming and going. She was still afraid of her body, and of hands going over it. Nails digging into her. Leather straps striking her. But these hands were as soft as the words that were spoken. The voices talked above her head as if she couldn’t comprehend. She could, though; she had always been able to comprehend, hadn’t she, even in the other world? She mustn’t try to bring back that world because in this present one were Mr Armstrong and Glenda. Oh, yes, Glenda. Glenda had put her on the train, but she hadn’t told her about the other world. And her son. Her son was coming. Glenda had promised her that. And he was grown-up. He was more than four. She closed her eyes tightly. Of course he is, she said to herself, in a very strange voice that seemed to come from the past. Don’t be silly. He is a doctor. You’ve held his hand. But Alex has promised to bring him back and we will have dinner together.
Will Mrs Atkins be there to serve it? Mr and Mrs Atkins knew a lot of what was going on, and she was so kind, she wasn’t like an ordinary housekeeper. And Trip knew too. Oh, he knew what was going on. He hadn’t been a butler to father and son for nothing. He and Mrs Atkins talked. They talked about her, but kindly. They knew what she was going through, especially Trip. He was the only one who slept in the main house, and he must have heard her at night.
There it was again, the face! Oh, no! She didn’t want to see it. She was in this soft, soft bed. They were washing her body, or they had washed her body. Yes, they had and she was resting. But why? Why had he to come again? He was haunting her. She heard her voice yelling, yelling, ‘Don’t! Don’t! You filthy swine! I am not an animal. I hate you! I hate you!’ Then the lifting up and the throwing of her body here and there. And now she was in that last night when she knew it was the end. She had planned to escape and she was going to escape or she would die under his hands. And he was shaking her as she yelled at him, ‘You are worse than any animal. You are a filthy pervert!’ Yes, she had yelled at him; and that was when he shook her until her brains seemed to rattle in her head. She could feel them, and his voice must have vibrated through the house when he said, ‘Don’t you ever dare speak again.’ Then there was more shaking, and, his voice deeper, louder, more terrible, now screaming, ‘Don’t you ever dare open your mouth again!’
She couldn’t remember how those words finished, only that they put a stamp on her mind. She must never speak again. Never, never, never. He had screamed that at her, and he had beaten her body back and forward on to the bed, his great hands lifting her shoulders, then throwing her back; and then he had done what he usually did, and she could fight no more.
But there was one hope. The escape was planned. Mr Cox, dear Mr Cox, whom that devil had sacked just because he played the piano for her. Cox had taken the money, more than a thousand pounds. She had saved this over the years, not spending her lavish allowance, and now he had booked a passage on a liner and she and Richard were going to America where Timothy was. Timothy was her very dear childhood friend. He was married, oh, yes, but that wouldn’t matter. He would hide her somewhere, because her husband would have her followed. But it was all arranged. She only wished she could tell dear Alex. But Trip knew, at least she thought Trip knew. But Freda McArthur could be trusted because she, too, knew what went on at night and how she suffered, because she had helped to bathe her on many a morning, when the tears had run down her face. And she would have helped her anyway, because Freda was in love with Mr Cox and, she knew, she was going to leave soon and they were to be married. It was all planned. They were just waiting for his next trip abroad, and it had come. She had been so full of joy that she wanted to please Alex and sing at his concert. And how she had enjoyed that. Oh, it was in defiance, because he would never let her sing; never mind stand on a platform. The beast, the horrible filthy beast of a man. And then she hadn’t time to think about the plan of going to America to see Timothy, because there he was and she was in his arms, and then the world broke up: there was nothing but screams and blows and terror and the voice yelling again, ‘Don’t you dare speak!’ She had tried to explain the surprise visit but the voice had bawled her down. Then a great weight had come on her head and she had fallen into another world; and there she had remained until now.
And the old world was on her again and she screamed out, ‘I hate you! I loathe you! You dirty, dirty . . .’
She knew her voice had trailed away.
The prick in her arm brought her back into the softness of the bed, and there were voices all around her, some saying, ‘Dreadful. Poor creature.’ Who were they talking about? It didn’t matter, she was going to sleep.