Steve seemed to taste the rotten flesh in the back of his throat. His mind found a stench to imagine, and created a gravy of putrescence to run over his tongue. How could she do it?
Twenty-nine: she is vomiting in the bucket in the corner of the room.
Thirty: she is sitting looking at the table. It is empty. The water-jug has been thrown against the wall. The plate has been smashed. The beef lies on the floor in a slime of degeneration.
Thirty-one: she sleeps. Her head is lost in a tangle of arms.
Thirty-two: she is standing up. She is looking at the meat again, defying it. The hunger she feels is plain on her face. So is the disgust.
Thirty-three. She sleeps.
“How long now?” asked Steve.
“Five days. No, six.”
Six days.
Thirty-four. She is a blurred figure, apparently flinging herself against a wall. Perhaps beating her head against it, Steve couldn’t be sure. He was past asking. Part of him didn’t want to know.
Thirty-five: she is again sleeping, this time beneath the table. The sleeping bag has been torn to pieces, shredded cloth and pieces of stuffing littering the room.
Thirty-six: she speaks to the door, through the door, knowing she will get no answer.
Thirty-seven: she eats the rancid meat.
Calmly she sits under the table, like a primitive in her cave, and pulls at the meat with her incisors. Her face is again expressionless; all her energy is bent to the purpose of the moment. To eat. To eat ‘til the hunger disappears, ‘til the agony in her belly, and the sickness in her head disappear.
Steve stared at the photograph.
“It startled me,” said Quaid, “how suddenly she gave in. One moment she seemed to have as much resistance as ever. The monologue at the door was the same mixture of threats and apologies as she’d delivered day in, day out. Then she broke. Just like that. Squatted under the table and ate the beef down to the bone, as though it were a choice cut.”
Thirty-eight: she sleeps. The door is open. Light pours in.
Thirty-nine: the room is empty.
“Where did she go?”
“She wandered downstairs. She came into the kitchen, drank several glasses of water, and sat in a chair for three or four hours without saying a word.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Eventually. When she started to come out of her fugue state. The experiment was over. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing at all. For a long time I don’t believe she was even aware of my presence in the room. Then I cooked some potatoes, which she ate.”
“She didn’t try and call the police?”
“No.”
“No violence?”
“No. She knew what I’d done, and why I’d done it. It wasn’t pre-planned, but we’d talked about such experiments, in abstract conversations. She hadn’t come to any harm, you see. She’d lost a bit of weight perhaps, but that was about all.”
“Where is she now?”
“She left the day after. I don’t know where she went.”
“And what did it all prove?”
“Nothing at all, perhaps. But it made an interesting start to my investigations.”
“Start? This was only a start?”
There was plain disgust for Quaid in Steve’s voice.
“Stephen —”
“You could have killed her!”
“No.”
“She could have lost her mind. Unbalanced her permanently.”
“Possibly. But unlikely. She was a strong-willed woman.”
“But you broke her.”
“Yes. It was a journey she was ready to take. We’d talked of going to face her fear. So here was I, arranging for Cheryl to do just that. Nothing much really.”
“You forced her to do it. She wouldn’t have gone otherwise.”
“True. It was an education for her.”
“So now you’re a teacher?”
Steve wished he’d been able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. But it was there. Sarcasm; anger; and a little fear.
“Yes, I’m a teacher,” Quaid replied, looking at Steve obliquely, his eyes not focused. “I’m teaching people dread.”
Steve stared at the floor. “Are you satisfied with what you”ve taught?”
“And learned, Steve. I’ve learned too. It’s a very exciting prospect: a world of fears to investigate. Especially with intelligent subjects. Even in the face of rationalization —”