Renée Knight - Disclaimer

He turned on the light next to the bed so he could see her better and then he leant his back against the door into Nick’s room and told her to undress. He had a small rucksack over his shoulder and he took it off and put it on the floor at his feet. Then he took out his camera and hung it round his neck, his eyes never leaving her. Watching her. Making sure she stayed where she was. She remembers wondering whether he was planning on blackmail. He moved away from the door and walked across the room. She could see the key to Nicholas’s room in the lock.

“Take it off,” he said, pointing to her bra with the knife. She pulled down the straps, pulled the bra around and unhooked it. She could have just reached behind and undone it, but she was delaying. And she thought her pathetic tactic had worked. She thought it gave her enough time to lunge for Nick’s door, unlock it, get to the other side, lock it again, lock him out. But she fumbled, couldn’t get the key out of the lock before he grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her round, and slapped her hard across the face. She had never been hit like that before, only the occasional slap on the back of her legs from her mother when she was a child. Her ears rang, her teeth crunched against each other.

“Mummy? Mummy?” A small voice from the other side of the door.

He held the knife, point up, under her chin.

“You better get him back to sleep.”

“It’s all right, darling. Ssh now, there’s a good boy.” Her voice must have sounded strange to Nick, not right. He said he wanted to see her.

“You promised to keep the door open. Mummy…” He was getting upset.

“So open the door,” he hissed in her ear. “Then shut him up.”

And she did, hoping she could close it behind her but he was too quick and jammed his foot in the doorway then concealed himself in the shadows but she could feel him watching as she sat down on Nick’s bed and stroked his hair. Watching them both.

“What’s that smell?” Nick said.

The smell was his aftershave.

“Oh, just some smelly stuff from the hotel. I had a shower,” she said, kissing his forehead.

“Pooh. Stinks,” he said and she tried to smile.

“Go to sleep now, darling. I’m here. I’m going to bed now too,” she lied.

“You said you’d keep the door open,” he said, trying not to let his eyes close, but they were fighting him.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Look. It’s open now. Shh, ssh now, sweetheart, go back to sleep.” She carried on stroking his hair until his eyes won, and closed. It took only a few minutes. She heard him move behind her. She felt him standing over her and Nick. She saw him look down at Nick, and then take his knife and move it over Nick’s sleeping eyes. From left to right, the blade hovered over her little boy’s lashes. She held her breath then stood up and moved towards the door. She needed to get him out of Nick’s room. Thank God he followed her. If Nick had woken. What would he have done?

Back in her room she told him to lock the door, and he smiled as if he thought she didn’t want them to be disturbed again.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now. Where were we?”

She’d put her T-shirt on again when she’d gone in to Nick, and now she peeled it off once more. Slowly this time. She wanted to win him over. She didn’t want him to hurt her or Nick and she hoped that maybe he just wanted to look. She heard the click of the camera as she pulled the T-shirt over her head. She didn’t know what to do. Should she pose? What should she do?

He looked at her, standing there in her knickers. They were plain, white. Decent. Modest. He was disappointed. He went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer and rifled through. He found the underwear Robert had bought for the holiday and he held it out to her.

“Put these on,” he said. So she did.

“Sit down on the bed.” She sat down on the bed.

“Sit back a bit. Relax.” She tried to. She put her arms behind her, leaning back a little.

“Open your legs,” he said. She did.

He sat down on a chair and looked at her.

“Put your hand in your knickers.” Oh fuck, she thought. She took a deep breath and put her hand in her pants.

“Be nice to yourself,” he said. “Make yourself come.” How could she? She couldn’t. But she had to. Her fingers began to move and he put his eye to his camera and waited. She was dry. Nothing there. She moved her fingers faster and then she heard the click, click, click begin, then the whine of the zoom as he came in closer and closer and she shut her eyes and tilted her head back. She parted her lips, gasped, faked, bit her top lip, moved her fingers, groaned, and she knew she would never get there but he would never know and then a final groan, a sigh. And she waited. She kept her hand there, not daring to move, wondering if that was all he wanted. Would he touch her? Or had her touching herself been enough? Click, click, fucking click. Slowly she took her hand away. Slowly she turned to look at him. He was sitting down. He looked relaxed, the camera hanging round his neck. No sign of the knife.

“Please. Please go now,” she said. “Please.” And then suddenly he wasn’t relaxed and there was the knife again. She’d made a mistake. She shouldn’t have said that. She should’ve pretended it was what she’d wanted too. He took his knife and cut her knickers and then he grabbed her hand and shoved it down the front of his jeans, his underpants. Wet. She could smell it, the pungent smell of his spunk. And her hand felt him getting hard and her heart raced and her throat clenched and she knew it wasn’t over. She felt sick with terror. Panic. Fear for herself, fear for her little boy. Her hand gripped his penis and she wanted to rip it from his body. He pulled her hand away.

“Not yet,” he’d said, as if she was impatient for him. Then: “Turn over.”

“No, please don’t,” and she’d started to cry, hoping that somewhere he would feel pity for her but instead he walked over to the door adjoining Nick’s room.

“Shall we show him what mummy likes doing?” And she imagined, for a moment, what it would do to her son if he saw what had just happened, and what might happen. What would that do to him?

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He looked at her.

“Please, come back,” she said. He came back and she got on all fours and he pulled her pants off, which were only hanging by a thread.

“Smile,” he said. She did.

“So I can see you,” he said and she turned her head and smiled.

“Now do it again,” he said and he snapped away as she reached her hand back, taking herself from behind. She closed her eyes. She was hiding herself from him, and trying to think. What should she do? She had to get him out of there. She had to get him away from Nick. Maybe she could leave the hotel with him…

“Why have you stopped?” She hadn’t realised she had. She started again, faster, faster again, her wrist aching, and then he grabbed her, and pushed into her, the pain, blood, then he turned her over, kissed her, his teeth, his spit, she could taste his aftershave, bitter on her tongue. She couldn’t make a sound. He didn’t have to put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. How could she scream with Nicholas there? What? Was he going to come and rescue her? She had to take it. And then hope to God it would be over and he would leave. He pressed his knee into her thigh and pushed into her again, hard, hard, hard. But quick. It was over. Over quick, but he was young and ready to go again. And again. And then finally he had had enough. How long? Hours. It felt like hours and hours. It was three and a half. It lasted for three and a half hours. And she had let him brutalise her. She hadn’t fought, she hadn’t screamed. She had just thought of Nick. Don’t scream. Don’t cry. And then he lay next to her on the bed and took her hand and turned to her and smiled.