Read The Book of Revelation for Free Online Page B

his head and drank. When he had swallowed he looked up at her.
    “I said, how long are you going to keep me here?”
    Again she did not answer.
    The next time she held the glass to his mouth, he turned his head violently to one side. She was affecting humility, the way a servant might, and yet she was the one who wielded the power. There was something self-righteous about her, something almost pious, that he could no longer stomach. He began to shout at her.
    “I asked you a question. I asked you how long you’re going to keep me here. What’s wrong with you? Are you deaf?”
    Perhaps someone had sensed anger coming because he had been locked face-down on the floor, his body fixed in an X shape. Each time he shouted he had to lift his head up off the mat, which put a strain on his throat, and if he wanted to look at the woman he had to peer over his shoulder. She was sitting there, staring mindlessly into the candle-flame. She was still holding the water glass, even though it was empty. She had started humming to herself. There was no tune to this humming—at least, none that he could recognise. It was just a sound, unvarying, unending. It only added to his fury. He swore at her, using the worst language he could think of.
    At last she picked up the candle and rose to her feet. He thought she might have glanced at him. Just once. Furtively. Then she turned away, withdrew into the shadows at the far end of the room. He heard her blow the candle out. She closed the door behind her. She was gone.
    Though he was alone now, and in the dark, he went on shouting. He shouted until his throat felt raw. Until he thought he could taste blood.
    Nobody came.
    That woman he had sworn at, she was the one who had visited him the night before, the one who lay there quietly, just holding him. Don’t worry. It’s only a dream .
    For who, though?
    Not for him.
    •
    There was a limit to the time that he had left. A male dancer’s career doesn’t last long—all that lifting: the body can only take so much of it—and his career would be shorter than most. His own personal history of injuries had started at the age of twenty-four. He had been born with a very straight back. It didn’t flex, which meant that it took a huge amount of impact when he jumped. It often stiffened after a performance. He even had trouble doing up his shoes sometimes.
    Every so often, when he was on stage, he would sense the injury returning. It was like watching clouds gather. Like watching weather moving in. There was nothing he could do to stop it, not a thing. He just had to use his experience to get through the performance. Afterwards Brigitte would come up to him. Was your back bad tonight? The physiotherapist would try and persuade him to take a few weeks off, but he never listened. Rest was like a form of torture to him. He was a dancer, and dancers want to be on stage. There’s just no substitute for that.
    In three months, he would be thirty, and he had to face the fact that he was rapidly approaching the end of his career. Yes, he had the choreography to fall back on—he was lucky to have that talent—but dancing had always been his first love, his one true passion.
    Yet here he was, locked in a room somewhere, unable to move. . . .
    His last moments were being stolen from him.
    •
    It had been dark for several hours when the door opened and someone switched on all the lights. In the abrupt, fierce glare he blinked, trying to adjust his eyes. He decided not to look round. He was tired of looking round. Instead, he stared at the back of his right hand, the place where the needle had gone in. There was a slight discolouration around the vein, an area of yellow and faded purple. It still ached a little.
    Footsteps crossed the bare boards behind him. He felt so defenceless lying on his stomach. It was almost impossible to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder; he felt as if he was fighting some kind of instinct.
    At last a woman appeared,