By placing a piece of meat on the ground, then allowing a number of ants to feast upon it, the attentive victim would observe that which lay in store should he or she choose to be uncooperative. By then strapping the victim – in this case my two guests – to the floor, legs apart, and pouring treacle, by way of a funnel, in through their aforementioned ‘other ends’, the ants could then consume the treacle all the way into their insides, which would be subjected to the same fate as the meat. Nature’s original pincer movement.
But I forewent this technique. Ants are difficult to control. Not all would follow the treacle. Others would feast on the subjects’ skin. Painting them would be less rewarding, particularly if their faces and breasts had been pincered.
Rats, of course, are ultimately and more speedily capable of creating a similar conclusion. Hence my use of the wooden crates. Once locked in, the rats could not get out; though, to the victim, they eventually would. Which engendered a quandary. What, after all my safeguards, if they did get out? I would not be any more celebratory than my models, whom I did not wish to be blemished. This I would overcome by introducing a measure of incentives. I would furnish replacement timbers, hammers and nails. You may feel constrained to point out that by so doing, my guests could avail of an opportunity to bludgeon me to death, or to knock a hole in the wall and make their escape. Do not alarm yourself. I was imminently cognisant of the former; concerning the latter, the walls’ cavities were steel lined and the doors of sufficient tenacity to withstand a horde of Olympic hammer throwers. A trifle overstated, that last remark. My apologies to you for my eagerness to allay your concerns.
Suffice it to say that the self-explanatory nature of the incentives would allow my guests to consider the benefits of incrementally frustrating the rats’ inexorable foray by shoring their defences. You may question the wisdom of this. Better to expedite matters without the comfort of reinforcements. I concur. Alas, it has been my unfortunate experience to arrive home late only to discover that the weight of the rats lunging against the inner surface of the crate compounded to create its dislodgement. I did not wish to lose a model in that fashion a second time. Besides, the replacement timbers, one each only, were of lighter quality than those used in the crates’ construction. They would prolong, not halt.
Having arranged for both Jackie and Lisa to awake to these considerations, I then got a good night’s sleep, and the following morning brought them the radio, for their entertainment, then made myself a nice hearty breakfast.
The news was on as I came back down and found them both gazing out through the serving hatches I’d made for their convenience, listening to the broadcaster reporting that, ‘Gardai are calling for information on the disappearance of two young women: Jackie Hay, last seen wearing a red skirt and pink sweater, and her flatmate, Lisa Shine, wearing black Lycra leggings and a lemon V-neck jumper, walking their dog towards St James’s Park, south Dublin, last night at around half past ten. Both are aged nineteen. And now the sport.’
Sport – how appropriate.
I switched off the radio and presented myself.
‘Jackie, Lisa. I am Hockler.’
They eyed me up and down. I’m quite a figure of a man, you know. Six foot six and not an ounce of fat.
‘Please, Mr Hockler—’
‘Not “Mr”, Lisa, “Hockler”.’
‘What do you want with us, Hockler?’
‘I want you for my work, Jackie. I’m an artist.’
‘Please, plea-ease, I’ve got a little baby.’
‘Oh have you, Lisa? How old?’
‘Eleven months.’
‘You must be very proud.’ Odd, I hadn’t seen a baby in their flat – not as much as a pair of rubber knickers. And her proclivity to sapphism hardly suggested heterosexual issue. Perhaps the prefix ‘bi’ would better connote than ‘hetero’. ‘Now, Lisa, time is moving on. I’ll show you where I work.’
I unlocked Lisa’s door. She retreated and curled up in the corner, hiding her face.
‘Would you rather I showed Jackie?’
Her second and third fingers parted, revealing a recoiling eye, in turn towards myself, the crate then back again. Then in a barely audible whimper, she uttered, ‘No.’
The rats were distracting her. They often get excited at such times, in anticipation of being fed.
Jackie, however, appeared less perturbed by them. ‘Leave her alone,’ she interceded.
‘As you wish.’ I locked Lisa’s door and unlocked Jackie’s.
‘What – you expect me to follow you? Just like that?’
‘Jackie, you did object to my taking Lisa.’
She hesitated. This was new to me. I had never before had two models (my apologies: prior to renovating, there had been an earlier opportunity which had proved short-lived and therefore unworthy of recounting) and had not expected one to appear to put herself forward in place of the other only to retract. They say that models can be elitist. Clearly this was an example of that. Prima donnas. ‘Well?’
Jackie stepped into the corridor, regarding Shirley warily. I had made Shirley crouch at the foot of the steps leading up to the kitchen. She can be intimidating. One cannot have one’s models kneeing one’s groin and attempting to flee, as one debilitating experience (to which I have just briefly alluded) had taught me.
At moments such as this, I find it most interesting to observe models’ eyes and body language. Without exception, wariness, of a different nature to that which she had shown towards Shirley, accompanied Jackie’s demeanour. Whereas she had regarded Shirley with alarm, I was treated to a glare, both appraising yet wincing. Her colleague, I suspected, was exhibiting similar apprehension. Alas, it is not a deportment that extends itself to the studio. A pity. I should so like
