I heard the door of the cabin bang shut and then my body took over.
It took me half an hour to get myself into some kind of shape, and again and again I just wanted to throw myself on my bed and let the tears go on coming until the men arrived with their guns to finish me off. But the will to live came back into me with the familiar movements of doing my hair and of getting my body, sore and aching and weak with the memory of much greater pain, to do what I wanted, and slowly into the back of my mind there crept the possibility that I might have been through the worst. If not, why was I still alive? For some reason these men wanted me there and not out of the way. Sluggsy was so good with his gun that he could surely have killed me when I made a run for it. His bullets had come close, but hadn’t they been just to frighten, to make me stop?
I put on my white overalls. Heaven knew they were impersonal enough, and I put my money into one of the pockets – just in case. Just in case of what? There would be no more escapes. And then, feeling sore and weak as a kitten, I dragged myself over to the lobby.
It was eleven o’clock. The rain was still holding off and a three-quarter moon sailed through fast, scudding clouds, making the forest blink intermittently with white light. Sluggsy was framed in the yellow entrance, leaning against the door, chewing at his toothpick. As I came up, he made way for me. ‘That’s my baby. Fresh as paint. A little sore here and there, mebbe. Have to sleep on your back later, huh? But that’s just what’ll suit us, won’t it, honey?’
When I didn’t answer, he reached out and caught my arm. ‘Hey, hey! Where your manners, bimbo? You like some treatment on the other side, mebbe? That also can be arranged.’ He made a threatening gesture with his free hand.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he let me go. ‘Now just get on back there and make with the pots and pans. An’ don’t go getting my gauge up. Or my friend Horror’s. Look what you done to that handsome kisser of his.’
The thin man was sitting at his old table. The first-aid box from the reception desk was open in front of him and he had a big square of adhesive across his right temple. I gave him a quick, frightened glance and went behind the serving counter. Sluggsy went over to him and sat down and they began talking together in low voices, occasionally glancing across at me.
Making the eggs and coffee made me feel hungry. I couldn’t understand it. Ever since the two men had got in through that door, I had been so tense and frightened I couldn’t have swallowed even a cup of coffee. Of course, I was empty from being sick, but in a curious and, I felt, rather shameful way the beating I had been given had in some mysterious fashion relaxed me. The pain, being so much greater than the tension of waiting for it, had unravelled my nerves and there was a curious centre of warmth and peace in my body. I was frightened still, of course – terrified, but in a docile, fatalistic way. At the same time my body said it was hungry, it wanted to get back its strength, it wanted to live.
So I made scrambled eggs and coffee and hot buttered toast for myself as well, and, after I had taken theirs over, I sat down out of sight of them behind the counter and ate mine and then, almost calmly, lit a cigarette. I knew the moment I lit it that it was a foolish thing to do. It called attention to me. Worse, it showed I had recovered, that I was worth baiting again. But the food and the simple business of eating it – of putting salt and pepper on the eggs, sugar into the coffee – had been almost intoxicating. It was part of the old life, a thousand years ago, before the men came. Each mouthful – the forkful of egg, the bit of bacon, the munch of buttery toast – was an exquisite thing that occupied all my senses. Now I knew what it must be like to get some food smuggled into jail, to be a prisoner of war and get a parcel from home, to find water in the desert, to be given a hot drink after being rescued from drowning. The simple act of living, how precious it was! If I got out of this, I would know it for ever. I would be grateful for every breath I breathed, every meal I ate, every night I felt the cool kiss of sheets, the peace of a bed behind a closed, a locked, door. Why had I never known this before? Why had my parents, my lost religion, never taught it to me? Anyway, I knew now. I had found it out for myself. Love of life is born of the awareness of death, of the dread of it. Nothing makes one really grateful for life except the black wings of danger.
These feverish thoughts were born of the intoxication of the food and of eating it alone behind the barricade of the counter. For a few moments I was back in the old life. So, light-headedly, and to hug the moment to me, I lit the cigarette.
Perhaps a minute later, the mumble of the voices died. Behind ‘Tales of the Vienna Woods’ coming softly from the radio, I heard a chair being drawn back. Now I felt panic. I put out the cigarette in the dregs of my coffee and got up and began briskly turning taps and clattering the dishes in the metal sink. I didn’t look, but I could see Sluggsy coming across the room. He came up to the counter and leaned on it. I looked up as if surprised. He was still chewing away at a toothpick, flicking it from side to side of his thick-lipped, oval mouth. He had a box of Kleenex that he put on the counter. He wrenched out a handful of tissues and blew his nose and dropped the tissues on the floor. He said in an amiable voice, ‘Ya gone an’ given me a catarrh, bimbo. All that chasing aroun’ in the woods. This trouble of mine, this alopecia thing that kills the hair. You know what that does? That kills the hairs inside the nose too. Together with all the rest. An’ you know what that does? That makes your schnozzle dribble bad when you got a cold. You given me a cold, bimbo. That means a box of wipes every twenty-four hours. More, mebbe. Ya ever think of that? Ya ever think of people have no hairs in their snouts? Aargh!’ The hairless eyes were suddenly hard with anger. ‘You gashes are all the same. Just think of yerselves. To hell with the guys that got troubles! You just go for the good-timers.’
I said quietly, under the noise of the radio, ‘I’m sorry for your troubles. Why aren’t you sorry for mine?’ I spoke quickly, forcefully. ‘Why do you two come here and knock me about? What have I done to you? Why don’t you let me go? If you do I promise I won’t say a word to anyone. I’ve got a little money. I could give you some of it. Say two hundred dollars. I can’t afford any more. I’ve got to get all the way down to Florida on the rest. Please, won’t you let me go?’
Sluggsy let out a hoot of laughter. He turned and called across to the thin man, ‘Hey, get out the crying towel, Horror. The slot says she’ll hand over two Cs if we let her scram.’ The thin man gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, but made no comment. Sluggsy turned back to me. His eyes were hard and without mercy. He said, ‘Wise up, bimbo. You’re in the act, and you’ve been given a star part to play. You ought to be tickled to be of so much interest to busy, important guys like Horror and me, and to a big wheel like Mr Sanguinetti.’
‘What is the act? What do you want me for?’
Sluggsy said indifferently, ‘You’ll be wised up come morning. Meanwhiles, howsabout shuttin’ that dumb little hash-trap of yours? All this yak is bending my ear. I want some action. That’s sweet stuff they’re playing. Howsabout you an’ me stepping it together? Put on a little show for Horror. Then we’ll be off to the hay and make with the bodies. C’mon, chick.’ He held out his arms, clicking his fingers to the music and doing some fast steps.
‘I’m sorry. I’m tired.’
Sluggsy came back to the counter. He said angrily, ‘You’ve got a big keister giving me that crap. Cheap little hustler! I’ll give you something to make you tired.’