He had tied her wrists to the bed post. She was wakening. He was sitting on a chair at the far side of the room. He considered her face, transitioning from sleep to wakefulness, how the lamplight caught the angle of her cheekbones, the movement of her lips, the furrow of her forehead as realisation dawned.
Never had he chosen one so perfect. He raised his phone, took a photograph, sent it. He sat back, waited. Wrapped in cellophane, draped over a coat hanger on the handle of a wardrobe, was a dark, puffy-sleeved blouse, a dark tweed skirt. Beneath, black heels.
He watched as her eyes focused, adjusted to her new surroundings. She blinked. Her expression changed, from sleepy bewilderment to startled terror. She didn’t scream. She focused on him, took deep breaths, doubtless trying to gain perspective. He admired her composure. This was new.
She tried to move her arms. The bonds were tight. She took another breath, looked about. There was little to see. The walls were bare, the curtains drawn shut. The only item of furniture, save the bed, was the wardrobe. She focused back on him. Her bottom lip trembled. Her breath came in little ragged gasps. But yet, no tears. No pleading. No sobbing. He was doubly impressed.
She found her voice.
“What is this?”
He sat up straight, attentive.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
She gave a weak nod.
“Of course you are. Sparkling or still?”
“What?”
“That’s okay. I’ll get you both.” He got up, went through to the kitchen, pulled out a bottle each of still and sparkling water from the fridge. He’d made sure to buy the expensive type. The type in glass bottles.
He unscrewed the tops, tossed the tops in a plastic bin. His hands were trembling. He was in a state of near rapture. He placed the bottles on a silver tray, went back to the bedroom.
“Which one?”
“Still.”
“Of course.” He came forward, untied one of her wrists, handed her the bottle. He went back to his seat.
“I always think drinking out the bottle feels better. What do you think, Margaret?”
She took several gulps. She gave him a level stare.
“It depends on what you’re drinking. What are you doing?”
He raised his shoulders, smiled. “Enjoying a civilised conversation with a beautiful woman.”
“Why am I here?”
“Please. Indulge me. I miss adult interaction. This place can be lonely.”
Her eyes never left him. “Is that why you brought me here and tied me to a bed? So we could have a chat?”
He laughed. A merry laugh. He was happy. She was a million times better than he had expected. He knew she was terrified, but the containment of her emotion was exceptional, and something to be appreciated. His heart soared.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I’ll fix you something later.”
“Why am I here?”
“If you weren’t here, then we wouldn’t be having this fun.”
“I would have more fun if you untied me.”
“In time.”
Again, her lip trembled. Her chin wobbled. But still no tears. She took another gulp of water.
“If you’re not going to tell me why I’m here, tell me where I am? That would only be polite.”
“Deep in the Eaglesham moors. The wind never stops blowing. You can hear it now. In the summer, it dies a little. But in the winter, it whips up, like a frenzy.”
She nodded, as if considering what he had said.
“I live close by. My husband will be looking for me. A lot of people will be looking for me. Let me go. I’ll not say a word. You can carry on, as if nothing had happened.”
The smile never left his face. “Let me give that some thought. Do you enjoy being a doctor?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her self-possession was cracking.
“Yes.” Her eyes never left his. “I enjoy healing the sick.”
“Is that what you think, Margaret? That I’m sick?” He kept his tone light. He found her conversation engaging.
“I can get you help,” she said. “The right help. I’ll see to it personally. Let me go. Let me speak to people.”
“Speak to people? But we’re speaking right now. No need to involve anyone else. Not yet.” He paused, then said quietly, “We aren’t so very different, in our own way. You heal people. I heal people, too. In a manner of speaking.”
Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “You’re a doctor?”
“I allow people to transcend. Those I deem worthy, I… modify. Make them better. Upgrade? Is that a good word? I oversee the change from the grub to the butterfly. I hope I’m not talking in clichés. But I’m not a doctor. My work is more specialised. Others – people who are beneath the likes of you and I – have given me a name. Which, despite their ignorance, their propensity to rut in the dirt like brute animals, is a name I am happy to accept.”
She said nothing. Not once did she take her eyes from his. She was waiting. Did she know? Perhaps. Perhaps she knew all the time. Such courage, he thought.
He kept his voice soft. “Shall I tell you what they call me?”
She remained silent, the cheekbones of her face harsh and sharp.
“They call me The Surgeon.”
Now, the tears came, the lips quivered, and she began to cry.
He got a message on his phone. A response to the photo he had sent. The message was one word, simple, and gave him joy.
The message said – perfect.