Chapter 60

Margie survived the day second by second, convulsed with terror. Her fear took a physical form, as if someone were clutching at her throat. There was no release from it; it incapacitated her, making it hard for her to concentrate on the sordid little acts she was ordered to perform. The rituals that she was forced to play out were tedious and demeaning. Moura came back at intervals and barked commands, making her change into yet more outlandish outfits. Moura brought these with her and took them away again: Margie wasn’t allowed to keep them. Margie was banned from using the dressing-gown for modesty when she was taking her clothes off: Moura threatened to take it away if she tried. It sickened her that she was stripping naked for her unknown watcher. She knew he was ogling her from the other side of the door, and the indelible image that insinuated itself of a vile old man sitting there, depraved and gloating, made her flesh creep.

Progressively, the outfits became scantier and more bizarre. Some consisted only of feathers held together with strips of lace. The colours were garish: purple, orange, lime green and gaudy yellow in hideous combinations, a madman’s designs. Ridiculous in one of these concoctions, Margie was made to parade around the small room and instructed to adopt obscene or provocative postures, often for half hours together, until suddenly Moura would tell her to stop and take off the clothes. Moura would seize them and disappear for a while, but when she came back the whole charade started up again. Sometimes Margie thought she heard voices when Moura opened the door, but when it closed again she was trapped in a weird silence, a soundlessness made eerier because she knew she was not alone.

She heard no more sounds from beyond the connecting door. She inspected it several times when Moura was out of the room, once moving close to the spy-hole so that he could see her fear. She hoped perhaps that he would take pity on her, see how young and inexperienced she was, or, if that was too much to expect, see how hopelessly unsuitable she was for whatever he wanted to do next. She could not imagine what that might be.

She sat on the floor with her back to the door for a while, thinking that he couldn’t see her there, but when she lifted her head from her knees she spotted a camera set high in the wall opposite her. It moved at intervals. The whole room was under surveillance. Terrified that he might suddenly burst through the door and grab her, Margie lay down on the bed and hoped that Moura would reappear.