A Terrible Beauty

'It's a detour, that's all. We'll be there in a trice.'

'No, no. I really don't think so. I want you to stop, right now, and I want to get out.'

'Don't be ridiculous. It's only half a mile intoBlarney from here.'

'In that case, I can walk it, okay? I want to get out.'

'You're not frightened, are you?'

'No, I'm not. But I want to get out. It's stopped raining and I can walk the rest of the way.'

'Hm,' said the driver, and suddenly put his foot down, so that the Mercedes surged forward, and its rear tires slithered on the muddy road.

'Stop, will you?' Fiona demanded. 'I want to get out!'

'Sorry, Fiona Kelly. That's not really an option.'

Fiona reached into her jeans pocket and tugged out her mobile phone. 'Are you going to stop and let me out or am I going to call the police?'

Without warning, the driver wrenched the mobile phone out of her hand and then punched her on the cheek. He hit her so hard that her head banged against the window.

'Oh, God!' she screamed. 'Stop! Let me out!Stop!'

The driver slammed his foot on the brake. The car slewed sideways and stopped halfway up the verge. Fiona grappled with the door handle but it was centrally locked and she couldn't open it.

'Let me out!Are you crazy?Let me out!'

The driver punched her a second time, right in the side of the nose, snapping her cartilage. The front of the car was suddenly spattered with blood. Then he seized her shoulders and hit her head against the window again and again, while she struggled and pushed and flailed her arms.

'You could have-saved me from-doing this,' he grunted, as he thumped her head against the glass, and then against the door pillar. 'You could have-sat there-and behaved yourself-like a good little-girl.'

He seized a handful of long blond hair, pulled her head toward him, and then knocked her head so hard against the window that she slumped unconscious, with blood pouring from her nose in a thin, continuous river.

He sat where he was for two or three minutes, breathing heavily. 'Shit,' he said, under his breath. Then he started up the car again, backed it off the verge, and continued to drive down the lane. Fiona sat next to him, joggling limply as he drove over lumps and potholes. Every now and then he glanced across at her and shook his head in annoyance. He wasn't used to girls who twigged so quickly that he was trying to take them away. Usually they were still smiling right up to the moment when he produced the ropes-and, sometimes, even after he'd tied them up.

He turned left up a steep, winding hill, where the nettles and the brown-seeded foxgloves crowded even closer. At the top of the hill there was a sagging five-bar gate, every bar still bejeweled with raindrops, and beyond that stood a damp-looking cottage, with one side thickly shrouded in creeper. He drove the Mercedes all the way around the cottage to the back garden, so that it couldn't be seen from the lane, and parked it beside the overgrown vegetable patch. As he climbed out of the car he saw dozens of hooded crows perched on the telephone lines above his head. He clapped his hands and shouted,'Hoi!'but they stayed where they were, all facing southwest, into the wind.

Opening the passenger door, he dragged Fiona out of the car and across the yard, her heels bumping on the broken concrete. She was still unconscious, but her nose had stopped bleeding, and she had a congealed black moustache. He propped her up against the side of the porch as he searched in his pocket for his keys.

'Shit,' he repeated, like a litany.

He managed to turn the key in the green-painted cottage door, and nudge it open with his shoulder. Winding Fiona's arm around his neck, he shuffled her inside, and across the hallway, and into the gloomy, damp-smelling living room. He dropped her onto the worn-out couch, with its mustard-colored throw, and then he went back to close the front door, and lock it.

'Now,' he said to himself. He crossed the living room and drew the cheap yellow cotton drapes. Then he shrugged off his coat and tossed it across the back of one of the armchairs, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. 'Couldn'tbe nice, could you? Couldn't be agreeable. Had to put up a fight.'

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed four. Fiona, on the couch, started to stir, and groan. Immediately, and very quickly, he unlaced her boots, and pulled them off her feet, and let them tumble onto the floor. Then her thick red hiking socks.

She groaned again, and tried to lift her arm. He leaned over her and said, 'Shush, shush, everything's fine. You're going to be fine in a minute.' He unbuckled her belt, opened up her jeans, and wrenched them halfway down her thighs. He was surprised and mildly aroused to find that she wasn't wearing any panties. Then he pulled off her denim jacket, and her red ribbed sweater. She mumbled, 'Mom?what's happening, Mom? Don't want to go to bed.'

'Everything's fine. Don't worry about it.'

'Mom, my head hurts.'

'It's okay?I'll bring you some aspirin. Just lie still.'

He took off her jeans and threw them into the corner of the room. He lifted her up, so that she was sitting, and then he knelt in front of her and tilted her over his shoulder. Panting with effort, he stood up, and carried her into the hallway, her arms dangling down his back, and into the bedroom next door. She was a big girl, well- nourished, and by the time he managed to lower her onto the bed he was trembling with the strain.

'Shit,' he said.

The bed had a green cast-iron frame and no mattress or blankets, but several thicknesses of newspaper had