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would be a hidden camera somewhere. It went with the handcuffs and the rubber mat; it belonged to the same family of objects. If he refused to submit to their demands, they would put the video in the post, and he didn’t want even to begin to imagine Brigitte’s face if she were to receive something like that.
    “OK,” he said quietly.
    “You will do it?”
    “Yes.”
    The leader walked back towards him, her hands clasped almost ceremonially in front of her. Under that black hood of hers, he knew she would be smiling. He looked beyond her. The piece of bright-orange sunlight had changed shape and moved in the direction of the door. It no longer bore the slightest resemblance to a coffin. He wasn’t sure if this was a good omen or a bad one.
    “If there is anything we can do,” the woman said, “to make it easier. . . .”
    He stared at her, not understanding what she meant.
    “Men often need something,” she said. “Pornography, for instance.” She paused. “You know,” and she was still smiling, he was sure of it, “a lot of men would pay to be in your position—”
    “If I was paying,” he said, “it would be my choice. This is not my choice.”
    “But you will do it,” she said, “won’t you.”
    •
    That night he woke up to find he couldn’t move. Something was resting heavily against him, pinning him to the floor—something warm, alive. . . . It took him a moment to realise that it was one of the women.
    She was lying next to him, her head turned sideways on his chest. He could just make out her hair, which was thick and wiry, and the curve of her left shoulder, edged in silver, thin light falling from the window high above.
    She appeared to be naked.
    He wondered whether he should say something. What, though? Suddenly the situation seemed ridiculous.
    Only a few hours earlier the women had put on a show for him. Two of them sat on moulded plastic chairs while a third stood in front of him and slowly, teasingly, undid her cloak. Underneath she had nothing on except her underwear, which was fashioned from expensive-looking, flame-red lace. What struck him first was the difference between her body and that of a dancer. Her body was softer than the bodies he was used to, and less defined. To his trained eye, she looked curiously indistinct, almost blurred, and, just for a moment, he seemed to see another, leaner figure, the dancer within her, bending, stretching, preparing for a morning class. . . . She reached behind her and unhooked her bra. It came away. Though her limbs were slender, her breasts were heavy—out of proportion to the rest of her, somehow. She drew her knickers downwards, past her knees. She had a faint bikini-line, as if she had been in the sun that winter, and high up on the outside of her left thigh there was a small round scar, the size of a guilder. He began to masturbate, as he was required to, but found that he couldn’t even achieve an erection.
    One of the women thought he wasn’t trying.
    “I am trying,” he protested. “Anyway, you can’t try . It doesn’t work like that.”
    The woman who had just undressed for him stooped quickly, clumsily, and gathered up her clothes. Then, wrapping herself in her black cloak, as if for warmth, she turned towards the door. He almost felt he should apologise to her.
    The other women rose out of their chairs.
    “Please don’t send the video,” he said.
    They left without another word, without a backward glance, which made him wish he hadn’t pleaded.
    But now one of them had returned. . . .
    As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he discovered that he could make out a pale mound, which was her hip, presumably, and, to the left of that, the two much smaller curves of her heels, one resting on the other.
    He could feel her breath against his skin, as light as feathers landing.
    “Don’t worry,” he heard her say. “It’s only a dream.”
    “But I’m awake,” he said. “I’m not asleep.”
    “A dream