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. . .” she murmured, “. . . only a dream . . .”
    •
    In the end, he did what they wanted him to do. In the end, he managed it, though only by drawing on erotic memories of Brigitte. There had been a moment when he opened his eyes and saw that one of the women was touching herself, her movements perversely echoing his own. It had been like looking into a distorting mirror. At the same time, the connection between himself and the woman had seemed so intimate that he felt as though he was indulging in an obscure form of infidelity.
    Afterwards, they left him alone for the rest of the day, but he knew this was only a temporary reprieve, a sort of natural interval. He had detected a greed in them. There would be more requests, and they would not get any easier, of that he felt quite certain, and yet he had no idea what they might involve; he could not see into the women’s heads, could not predict the direction their fantasies would take.
    His only consolation, if you could call it that, was that he now felt able to distinguish between the women. Even in a physical sense they were beginning to lose their mystery. Once, for instance, when the woman he thought of as the leader turned to one of her accomplices, he noticed how the tip of her nose pushed against the fabric of her hood. A prominent nose: it wasn’t much, but it was something. He could add it to the sensitive skin, the darkly painted nails, the smoker’s husky voice. It was as if their hoods and cloaks were gradually becoming transparent. As if their disguises were subject to some kind of unavoidable decay.
    There was much that still puzzled him, of course. What was it that the women had in common? What were the circumstances that had brought them together? This curiosity about the nature of their connection threw up dozens of still more basic questions. What did the women do when they weren’t in the room? How did they earn money? Who were their friends? How long had they lived together? Had they grown up together? If so, where? Were they related in any way?
    Slow down, he told himself. Slow down.
    From his point of view the women formed a unit, a sort of edifice, but he had to remember that they were individuals as well. Two of them had determined and uncompromising characters, and they would be difficult to get the better of, but there was a third who was softer, who rarely spoke. She was the one who had crept into the room at night and laid her head against his chest, content, it seemed, simply to be close to him. Possibly, he thought, just possibly, he had found a weakness in the structure—though, as yet, he wasn’t sure how, or even if, it could be exploited. In the meantime, he had to concentrate on building up as clear a picture as he could of each of the three women. He had to look beyond their hoods and cloaks. He had to turn them into human beings.
    •
    You don’t choose anger. No, anger chooses you. Ever since he had surfaced from the anaesthetic they had given him he had been calm. In fact, given the circumstances, his calmness had been unusual, if not unnatural. Perhaps it was shock. Or disbelief. Or perhaps, at some deep level, he was taking stock of the situation, developing a strategy. He didn’t know. All he knew was, something was beginning to change in him. To shift. Something was beginning to accumulate.
    One evening a woman walked into the room holding a lighted candle and a glass of water. He knew from the uncertainty in her footsteps that it was the woman with the bitten fingernails. She placed the candle on the floor, close to his head, then settled beside him, grunting slightly as she eased down on to the mat.
    “How long are you going to keep me here?”
    It was the first time he had asked the question, and he heard a tremor in his voice, a kind of nervous violence, which surprised him.
    The woman did not answer. Instead, she held the glass to his mouth. Her shadow ducked and shuddered on the wall behind her.
    He lifted