Read Bodily Harm for Free Online Page A

It’s your own fear of death, she told herself. That’s what any armchair shrink would tell you. You think you’re dying, even though you’ve been saved. You should be grateful, you should be serene and profound, but instead you’re projecting onto some pathetic weirdo who’s never going to bother you again. That scratching you heard at the window last night wasn’t coming from the outside at all.
    Which was all very well, but the man existed; he was an accident that had almost happened to her; he was an ambassador, from some place she didn’t want to know any more about. The piece of rope, which was evidence, which the police had taken away with them, was also a message; it was someone’s twisted idea of love. Every time she went into her bedroom she could see it, coiled on the bed, even though it was no longer there.
    In itself it was neutral, and useful too, you could use it for all kinds of things. She wondered whether he’d intended to strangle her with it or just tie her up. He hadn’t wanted to be drunk, there had been beer and half a bottle of wine in the refrigerator, she was sure he’d looked, and he’d chosen Ovaltine. He’d wanted to know what he was doing. When he got as far as the scar perhaps he would havestopped, apologized, untied her, gone home, to the wife and children Rennie was certain he had. Or perhaps he knew, perhaps that’s what turned him on.
Mr. X, in the bedroom, with a rope
.
    And when you pulled on the rope, which after all reached down into darkness, what would come up? What was at the end,
the end?
A hand, then an arm, a shoulder, and finally a face. At the end of the rope there was someone. Everyone had a face, there was no such thing as a faceless stranger.

    Rennie is late for dinner. She has to wait at the front desk while they set a table for her in the diningroom. Around the corner, where she can’t see, a tray of silverware hits the floor and there’s an argument in low voices. After fifteen minutes a waitress comes out and says sternly that Rennie can go in now, as if it’s a trial rather than a meal.
    As Rennie walks towards the diningroom, a woman with a tan the colour of clear tea walks out of it. She has blonde hair braided and wound around her head, and she’s wearing a sleeveless magenta dress with orange flowers on it. Rennie feels bleached.
    The woman smiles at her with fluorescent teeth, looking at her with round blue china-doll eyes. “Hi there,” she says. Her friendly, glassy stare reminds Rennie of the greeting perfected by hostesses in the restaurants of Holiday Inns. Rennie waits for her to say, “Have a good day.” The smile lasts a little too long, and Rennie gropes, wondering if she knows this woman. She decides with relief that she doesn’t, and smiles back.
    The tables are covered with starched white tablecloths and the wine glasses have linen napkins tucked into them, pleated into fans. Propped against the flower vase, one hibiscus per table, is a small typewritten card which isn’t exactly a menu, since there’s no choice. The food is brought by three waitresses, in light-blue full-skirteddresses and white aprons and mobcaps. They are totally silent and do not smile; perhaps they’ve been called away from their own dinners.
    Rennie begins to compose, from habit and to pass the time, though she doesn’t think the Sunset Inn will find its way into her piece:
    The décor is nondescript, resembling nothing so much as an English provincial hotel, with flowered wallpaper and a few prints of hunting and shooting. The ceiling fans add a pleasant touch. We began with the local bread, and butter of perhaps a questionable freshness. Then came (she consulted the menu) a pumpkin soup, which was not the bland version most North Americans may be used to. My companion …
    But there is no companion. It’s necessary to have a companion for these excursions, always, if only a paper one. The readers would find the suggestion that you would go to a