Fire Spirit (8 page)

For three slow heartbeats, she wondered if it was safe for her to open the door. But the man was wearing the proper Papa Joey's uniform, and where would any of the neighborhood kids have found one of those?

She unfastened the deadlocks, and opened the door, although she left the safety-chain on. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘You can pass it through here.'

‘Sorry, ma'am, have to keep it flat. Company policy. If I tilt it sideways, all of your pineapple's going to fall off, right?'

‘Oh, OK.'

She drew back the safety-chain. Immediately, the man slammed the door wide open, and collided with Tilda so hard that she fell over backward, on to her glass-topped coffee table, which collapsed underneath her and shattered. He swung the apartment door shut behind him and slung his pizza box across the room. He pulled off his Papa Joey's cap, too, and threw that aside.

Tilda was winded at first, but then she sat up and screamed out, ‘
Help
!
Somebody help me
!
Etta
!'

The man barked, ‘Shut up, you fat bitch!' and forced her back on to the wreckage of her coffee table. He gripped her by the neck, half-strangling her, and at the same time he dug his right knee deep into her stomach, so that she sicked up undigested chicken and onion strings, some of it through her nostrils, and almost choked.

She was shaking with shock and dread. What terrified her the most was the man's face, which was covered by a dead-white mask. Whatever his real expression was, his mask was fixed into an expression of maniacal glee, as if he couldn't wait to make more mischief, and humiliate her even more.

She spat out chicken and gravy-colored mucus. ‘Please . . .' she begged him. ‘I'm going to puke again. Please.'

The man stayed where he was, with his knee buried in her stomach, and she could see his eyes behind the slits in his mask.

‘You have to swear on your life that you're not going to scream.'

‘Please, I can't breathe.'

‘Did you hear me? You have to swear on your greedy, bloated life that you're not going to scream!'

‘I swear,' coughed Tilda. Her stomach was going into nauseous convulsions, and her mouth was filling up with bile. ‘Please, get off me. I swear to God I won't scream.'

The man hesitated for a few seconds, and then released his grip on her neck and stood up. Tilda rolled over on to her side and vomited up the rest of her chicken-dinner-for-two. After that, she stayed where she was, sniffing miserably.

‘Look at you,' said the man, with complete contempt. ‘You're just like
she
was, you miserable lump of suet.' He spat on her, and then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘What do you—' Tilda began, but she had to cough up more chicken before she could get her words out. ‘What do you want?'

‘What do I want? What do I want? I don't want nothing at all, ma'am. Not from you, especially. But what
I
want, that's beside the point.'

‘Please don't hurt me. I have to take care of my mother.'

‘You think I give a shit about your mother? Why should I give a shit about your mother? This is human destiny we're talking about here. This is
history
. Things have gone wrong and now they have to be put right.'

Tilda looked up at him. He was highly agitated, and he kept pacing from one side of the room to the other. On the opposite side of the room, he kicked the pizza box, which was obviously empty.

Her telephone was fixed to the wall, in the kitchenette area. She wondered if she could reach it in time to dial 911, but she doubted it. She turned around and looked at her bookshelves, which were filled with romance novels and diet books, but also with books about travel in the Far East. She had left her floppy beige purse on top of them, and in the side-pocket of her purse lay her cellphone. But again she knew that she had almost no chance of crossing the room and taking it out before the man knocked her down a second time.

‘I'm not saying it's your fault,' the man told her. He cleared his throat, and paused to get his breath back. ‘The problem is, it has to be fixed somehow, and so far as I know this is the only way.'

‘I don't understand what you're talking about,' said Tilda. ‘
What
has to be fixed?'

‘The . . .' the man began, but then he seemed to be lost for words, and all he could do was throw up his hands. ‘
Everything
. Everything has to be fixed, that's what.'

‘Please, you won't hurt me, will you?' said Tilda.

But at that moment there was a soft, quick knock at the door and two more men came into the apartment. Still sitting on the floor, Tilda humped herself away from them, toward the couch, and she couldn't stop herself from letting out a muted squeal of fear. Both men were dressed in black sweatshirts and black pants, but one of them wore a mask that was totally expressionless, while the other wore a mask of scowling anger. The laughing man closed the door and locked it.

‘You're right,' said the expressionless man. ‘She looks exactly like her. Gives you the willies, don't it?'

The scowling man came up to Tilda and hunkered down close to her. He took hold of her face in his hand and squodged her cheeks together. ‘How much do you weigh, sweetheart?' he asked her. ‘Two-twenty? Two-thirty? More?'

Tilda couldn't speak. The scowling man said, ‘Never mind. You look the part, that's all that matters. You're a dead ringer.'

The expressionless man came up close to her, too, and between the two of them they heaved her up from the floor. She clutched her bathrobe around her, and looked from one of the men to the other, trying to understand what they wanted from her.

‘You have a boyfriend, Tilda?' asked the laughing man.

She shook her head. Her throat hurt and her eyes were filled with tears.

‘That's good. That makes it more authentic. She didn't have no boyfriend neither. Well, she was such a tub of lard. Just like you.'

‘Please don't hurt me,' Tilda whined. ‘Please, I'll do anything.'

‘Well, we know you will,' said the laughing man. ‘But that don't change nothing. Take off the robe.'

‘What?'

‘You heard me, sweet cheeks. Take off the robe.'

Tilda gripped the lapels of her bathrobe and crossed her arms tightly over her bosom. ‘I can't.'

‘No, Tilda. You don't get it. You
can
take it off, and you will, and you'll do it right now. We're none too patient, none of us.'

‘I can't! I can't! I've never—'

The laughing man leaned over her, so that his white papier mâché nose was almost touching hers. ‘You've never
what
, darling?'

Tilda was feeling faint, and she couldn't stop herself from swaying. ‘I've never . . .
showed
myself. To a man.'

The scowling man came up close to her, too. ‘You've never been naked in front of a man? Like, you've always turned the lights off?'

Tilda closed her eyes.
Please let this not be happening. Please.

‘I've never been with a man. Ever.'

‘Well, stick a feather up my ass and call me a peacock. You were never with a man,
ever
? How old are you, Tilda?'

‘Twenty-three. Twenty-four, nearly. My birthday's next week.'

‘In that case, you're in luck, because we're going to bust your cherry before you get a single day older.'

Tilda swayed sideways and almost fell over, but the scowling man caught her arm. ‘Hey – I know this is kind of thrilling for you, but there's no need for you to pass out on us.'

‘Please,' Tilda mumbled. ‘What am I going to tell my mother?'

‘Who gives a shit? Tell her you enjoyed it. Tell her anything you want. It's none of
her
business anyhow. It's personal.'

Tilda suddenly wrenched herself away from him and screamed in his face, ‘
Go away
!
Go away all of you and leave me alone
!
Get out of my apartment
!
Get out
!'

The laughing man waited patiently until she had finished her outburst, and then he said, in that breathless, asthmatic voice, ‘You want to calm down, Tilda. You really do. Think of your blood pressure. Look at yourself, you've gone all purple in the face. That can't be good for you.'

Tilda's chest was rising and falling with the effort. ‘Please get out,' she panted. ‘Please leave me alone.'

‘If only we could, sweet cheeks. But we have to do this, otherwise we're going to be in deeper trouble than you could ever imagine. Sometimes, in this life, it's a question of doing what you have to, regardless of the consequences, and no matter who gets hurt in the process.' He paused for a moment, and then he said, ‘Take off the robe, Tilda. If you don't take off the robe, we'll have to hurt you, and we don't want to do that. No more than necessary, anyhow.'

Tilda looked up at him. If only she could see his face. If only she could tell what he was thinking. But all she could see was that maniacally laughing mask, a frozen reaction to a long-forgotten joke.

‘Come on, Tilda,' he coaxed her.

She loosened her sash, and then she let her arms drop to her sides, so that the robe slid off her shoulders by itself, and dropped on to the floor.

‘My God,' said the scowling man. ‘You're one whale of a woman, I'll have to grant you that.'

Tilda could see herself reflected in the mirror beside the front door. She hated looking at herself naked. Her breasts were enormous, and her stomach bulged as if she had just walked out of the ocean with a half-deflated lifebelt hanging around her hips. Her massive thighs were already dimpled with cellulite, and her ankles were so swollen that the straps of her shoes left indentations in her flesh.

The laughing man looked around the apartment. His eyes lighted on the wooden bowl of fruit on the kitchenette counter. He went over to it and picked out an apple.

‘Get yourself down on all fours,' he told Tilda.

‘What?' She was trying to cover her breasts with her left arm and keep her right hand cupped between her thighs.

‘You heard me. Get yourself down on all fours.'

‘No,' she retorted, although her voice was so weak that the laughing man pretended not to hear her at first, and mockingly cupped his hand to his papier mâché ear.

‘
No
,' she repeated.

The laughing man returned to the kitchenette and noisily pulled open the drawers, one by one, until he found a six-inch boning knife. He came back and held it up in front of Tilda's face. ‘Don't get argumentative, OK? That's all I'm asking. You look like a pig already, but I can make you look even more like a pig if I cut your nose off.'

Tilda stared at him, breathing faster and faster. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then he jabbed the end of her nose with the tip of the knife. She said, ‘
Ah
!' and lifted her hand to her face, but then she realized that she was exposing herself and quickly put it down again.

The laughing man polished the apple on his sleeve, and then he said, ‘Here . . . stick this in your mouth. Go on.'

Tilda began to weep, but when the laughing man pushed the apple hard against her lips she opened her mouth wide and took a bite into it and held it there.

‘Good girl. Excellent. Now get yourself down on all fours.'

Sobbing, Tilda lowered herself on to her hands and knees. Her breasts and her stomach hung down, and she felt overwhelmed with shame. Keeping the apple between her teeth made her drool, but she didn't dare to let it drop out in case the laughing man did what he had threatened and cut off her nose.

‘What a cute little piggy,' said the laughing man. ‘Got an apple in its mouth and everything. All it needs now is some stuffing.'

He tugged down his zipper and dug his hand into his pants. He levered out his penis and brandished it in front of Tilda's face, so close that she could smell it.

‘See this, Tilda? This is the finest pork stuffing. You'll love it, same way that
she
always loved it.'

Tilda closed her eyes. The apple was beginning to make her jaws ache. But the laughing man said, ‘Come on now, Tilda. You keep your eyes open. Otherwise I'll have to cut off your eyelids so you don't have no choice in the matter.'

He went around and knelt down behind her. ‘Wish me luck, boys!' he said. He had a short coughing spasm, and then he added, ‘I'm boldly going where no man has gone before!'

He used both hands to pry apart the cheeks of Tilda's huge buttocks, and then he raised himself up a little and forced himself into her, all the way, hard, even though she was dry. Tilda bit harder into the apple, because he was hurting her so much, but she thought to herself:
Pretend this is a movie you're watching, and it isn't happening to you at all. You came home, you ate your dinner, and then you had your bath. Now you're watching some violent movie on TV.

The laughing man pushed harder and harder. He reached around her with both hands and dug his fingers deep into her pendulous belly, and kneaded it, as if it were dough. He coughed, and she could feel his coughing right inside her, but he didn't stop. And now the scowling man and the expressionless man both opened up their pants, too, and stood in front of her, holding themselves in their hands.

‘We can save you the trouble of taking a bath, Tilda,' said the expressionless man. ‘How about we give you a shower?'

The scowling man started giggling behind his mask, and that giggling made it impossible for Tilda to pretend any longer that this wasn't real, and that these three men were going to do whatever they wanted to her, and that when they were finished with her, they would probably kill her. She let the apple drop from her mouth on to the floor.