“Gosh! Really? Between leaving work and now? I mean, it’s only seven-thirty. Who is this man? Speedy Gonzales?”
“He’s a hedge fund manager.”
“Oh, a rich man. Well, I’m all ears. Tell me more.”
“He was in the Dolly. And so was Rob. So I asked him if he’d mind pretending to be my date. And he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.”
“Hang on. You went to the Dolly after work? On your own?”
“Yeah. Really needed a drink, after the horror of Robgate. Except he was in there.”
“He’s always in the Dolly. Anna, you dolt.”
“Wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Oh, Anna, love, that’s turning into the story of your life. You need think-straighteners. Like hair-straighteners for your brain. So this hedge fund man—he was keen to take part in your little charade, was he?”
“I think so. He took my number. He’s going to get in touch.”
“He took your number? He didn’t give you his?”
“Well…I didn’t ask…”
“Oh, Anna. What’s his name?”
“Umm. The Man.”
“Sweetheart, a man in a bar will take your number. It doesn’t mean he’ll call. Especially if he doesn’t even tell you his name. But I’m pleased for you. You had a nice flirt, a little morale booster, all lovely. And now the Bolognese is on the table and I must dash. See you tomorrow, sweetie.”
“But…” Anna heard the click and found herself speaking to a phantom. “But I know he will call,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
You and your romantic old flannel, she mimicked Mimi’s tone of fond exasperation. That was what she would say. Anna and her romantic old flannel, always expecting to be swept off her feet. But if you expect it, it isn’t sweeping, is it? It’s leaping into the chap’s arms. The chap wants to do the sweeping. Let him.
Anna was at her door now, at the top of the steps, turning the key in the lock of the imposing three-storey Victorian terrace whose attic room she rented. Kicking away the takeaway flyers and red bills, she headed straight up the dingy staircase. Bet Mr. Hedge Fund doesn’t live like this. Bet he lives in a huge, airy apartment, all floor-to-ceiling glass and minimalistic furnishings.
Bet he doesn’t cook pasta on two gas rings, she speculated, stirring the jarred sauce in the kitchen corner of her room. Bet he’s with the editor now, somewhere swanky like St. John or Smiths of Smithfield, eating the finest cuisine and drinking vintage wine. Bet he doesn’t lie on his unmade bed watching EastEnders on a dodgy portable telly. Bet he’s out in the hottest bars, flirting with the hottest women, all golden-skinned and Bond Street-clad, and looking for a Mr. Hedge Fund of their own.
“Yeah, but hands off, he’s mine,” she said aloud, dropping the last Skittle into her mouth and squinting at the cobweb on the light fitting. The early summer sun was sinking now and perhaps it was time to switch on the bare bulb. Or just go to bed. She could not even remember what he looked like—how was his face put together? There were flashes of one feature or another, but she couldn’t quite fit the jigsaw pieces in the right configuration, and it was
irritating. The smell of him—something divine, something expensive. Was the chemist still open? Could she go down and just sniff at a few aftershave samples, to see if she could get a hit of him?
“You’re bonkers, Rice,” she announced, and then her phone bleeped. “It’ll be Mimi,” she told herself. “Or Gran. Or someone from home.”
All the same, her fingers were clumsy on the buttons, and she gasped and whooped at the message, simple as it was.
“Your editor less fierce than I was led to expect—good night, Miss Rice xxx.”
A length of muscular twine, thick as a snake, wrapped itself round her, over and over, while Anna struggled to elude it. But her limbs were heavy and she was weighted to the bed, glued to its sweaty summer-night sheets, unable to do anything but watch the twine, with its dull sheen of gunmetal, wind around her waist, her thighs, her wrists, its progress insidious, its scales cold against her skin. As it crept, it awoke sensation, ticklish at first, then blooming into arousal, as if it were some form of aphrodisiac vine. The bedroom was dark, too indistinct to make out anything but grey, yet these bonds were visible, and they hissed, loud, like escaping gas, and now they were tightening, impressing her skin, leaving marks, and she wanted to scream because she thought they would carry on constricting her until she was dead, but no sound would come. She felt herself rise, just a few inches off the bed, and then she heard the hisses form into words, but only two words: “You’re mine.”
Wake up! she commanded herself. Wake up! It’s a dream! She tried to say the words, but her tongue was thick and jammed to the roof of her mouth. The twine evaporated, but she was still immobile, and she was no longer in the air, but she knew she had to open her eyes, even though they were pretending to be open already.
Anna was no stranger to sleep paralysis, so when she came round, she was not unduly anxious or frightened. This had been going on, periodically, since she was sixteen. It had been terrifying at first, but she had read a few websites and was satisfied that it was a common enough phenomenon, if still not exactly enjoyable. The first time, she had been convinced that it was nothing less than satanic possession, and she had tried to avoid sleeping for days afterward. Even now, there were words—which was rare in sleep paralysis, from what she had gleaned—and a definite force of presence that prevented her dismissing the demonic theory out of hand. It always seemed so real.
But she groped at the side of the bed, picked up her mobile and lit the screen, looking once more at those few words of text, just to make sure that they, and not the dream, had been real. Yes, they were still there, in black-and-white. Or black-and-grey. The Man existed. The kiss had happened. Almost unconsciously, she put her hand to her neck. She could still feel him there. Reassured, she drifted back into sleep.
There was a face. Was it his face? No, it was a snake’s face, fierce and fanged, and the twine was back, but this time it was the snake’s body. Entwined in the coils, she tossed and turned, but the thick, ropelike length passed between her legs, and every movement only served to allow it to rub against her most intimate parts, sparking them into life. The snake was seducing her, taking possession of her body and forcing her into a state of sexual desire that she could not escape. She tried to form words, to plead for mercy, looking up at the snake’s head, but it was not quite a snake’s head now, and its eyes reminded her of some that she had seen quite recently—a man’s eyes—and they were watching her while she fought her impending climax, fought the slick thick bonds that stimulated her clit and crept up behind along the crack of her bottom, fought the wash of orgasm that was threatening to overwhelm her…
Until it was too late and she was coming hard, beneath the pitiless eyes of the snake-face stranger, who laughed at her, laughed like a space opera villain, until…