‘This way.’ I opened the door to room number four. (I had removed its five incumbents – Shirley’s now-grown pups – to room number three. Like the rats, they too, for identical reasons, can become overexcited at the thought of models, once they have outlived their usefulness.)
Shirley came up behind us, growling as we entered.
‘She’s merely jealous, Jackie,’ I explained, ‘because I’m holding your hand. She likes me all to herself.’ Shirley snarled at her. ‘Now, now, Shirley, I’ve told you about that before. Come along, Jackie.’
I led her in through the internal door and down the steps to my studio. She entered guardedly, the freezer, in particular, as the motor came on, startling her further. The newspapers had reported my having taken what they had referred to as ‘physical trophies’. I suspected that Jackie was aware of this disclosure and had now made the connection. She was looking at the freezer the way people do not normally look at freezers, assessing it not as a two-door model with a fridge on the top, but rather in terms of its likely contents. I opened the top door. Strange how such an everyday action in a kitchen can pass unnoticed, yet in a given set of circumstances can engender a heart-stopping reaction.
‘Would you care for a soft drink, Jackie?’
She declined or should I say ‘jerked’ her head repeatedly from side to side. Far too many jerks for one simple ‘no’. She had expected the compartment to contain something other than Coca-Cola and pineappleade (the latter a favourite of mine). I did not open the lower door. What she would have seen inside would have put an abrupt halt to my guided tour.
‘Now, this is where I work. Not the most luxurious of studios, but I get by. Henceforth I intend to prepare all my models and place them here on this table. As you can see, it has a zinc top, a touch too cold for the purposes of sitting. I have purchased various materials with which to cover it to provide a backdrop: velvet, silk and so forth.’
She herself, of course, would never view the finished work. This too was preying on her mind.
‘And when I have finished, I hang my paintings in here.’ I showed her through to my private art gallery. She was the first to have ever received a private viewing. ‘And here, Jackie: I’ve reserved this space for you.’
It was quite a commanding space, in the centre of the wall between a portrait of a redheaded model named Clare and a raven-haired model called Katie. Again words failed her, as they would have any female finding herself in this situation. She could hardly take it in.
‘Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? You can tell Lisa all about it when you get back.’
This was to form a precursor to a little expedient I was contemplating. I had experienced, in my early to mid-teens, that foretaste engenders compliance. More anon.
As I had anticipated, she fainted. I carried her back to her room.
* * *
‘Now, I’d like you to tell me about your friends. Girlfriends. You first, Jackie.’ The question somewhat betrayed my intentions.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I should like to get to know them.’
‘I have no friends.’
‘Lisa?’
Lisa was still curled up in the corner, her head on her knees.
‘Lisa?’
Nothing. They needed more time. I had surmised as much. Hence my preparations. Though how long they would hold out had yet to be put to the test. The strange thing was that neither had made reference to the rats. They seemed to accept them as part of their predicament, over which remonstrating would hold no sway. Both stayed away from their respective crates, though they were clearly unhappy at their presence, and appeared to cringe more than a little during momentary increases in rustling and so forth, particularly Lisa – but that was the extent of their distraction. This surprised me.
In the case of the rats, as opposed to the ants, experience had taught me that information can be extracted over a period of time, usually no longer than a fortnight, by placing the subject in surroundings such as those I had borrowed good money to engineer, or similar, with no outside contact, a cold floor to sleep on, the rats starving and gnawing at the wood, driven by the smell of what little food the subject was being fed, incessantly squeaking, on and on and on, until the subject begins to hallucinate and then sleepwalks. I then enter, open the box, let the rats loose then leave. The subject then snaps out of it and believes that he or she has let them loose. I then re-enter with a blazing torch, disperse the rats, usher the subject into another room and start again. The subject is then reluctant to go back to sleep in case of a recurrence.
I wasn’t quite sure what I would do if none of this worked in respect of Jackie and Lisa. I would clearly have lunatics on my hands. And because lunatics are irrational, irrational thought often has to be applied in dealing with them. I would have to come up with something else. I did not think it would come to that. Moreover, I did not know how to think irrationally.
I tossed an already-dead rat with a knife wound, and a live rat to feed on it, into each of their rooms to exemplify the outcome should the others eat their way through the timber, which, I believe I neglected to add, had been steeped in beef stock to create incentive. The psychological effect of this is advantageous. I left them for thirty-six hours, until the following night, when I returned with a bottle of wine and a glass, pulled up a stool and tried again.
‘Tell me about your friends, Jackie.’
‘My friends?’
Her spirit had gone. A fortnight had not been necessary after all. The foretaste had contributed towards bringing her acquiescence to fruition. I was
