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'It's quite warm in her little room； and there's a few flies in there with her。 They've found the meat： laid their eggs。 Yes； it's ripening up quite nicely。'
'Is that part of the plan？'
'Sure。 If the meat revolted when it was fresh； what about her disgust at rotted meat？ That's the crux of her dilemma； isn't it？ The longer she waits to eat； the more disgusted she bees with what she's been given to feed on。 She's trapped with her own horror of meat on the one hand； and her dread of dying on the other。 Which is going to give first？'
Steve was no less trapped now。
On the one hand this joke had already gone too far； and Quaid's experiment had bee an exercise in sadism。
On the other hand he wanted to know how far this story ended。 There was an undeniable fascination in watching the woman suffer。
The next seven photographs … twenty； twenty…one； two； three； four； five and six pictured the same circular routine。 Sleeping； washing； pissing； meat…watching。 Sleeping； washing； pissing …Then twenty…seven。
'See？'
She picks up the meat。
Yes； she picks it up； her face full of horror。 The haunch of the beef looks well…ripened now； speckled with flies' eggs。 Gross。
'She bites it。'
The next photograph； and her face is buried in the meat。
Steve seemed to taste the rotten flesh in the back of his throat。 His mind found a stench to imagine； and created a gravy of putrescence to run over his tongue。 How could she do it？
Twenty…nine： she is vomiting in the bucket in the corner of the room。
Thirty： she is sitting looking at the table。 It is empty。 The water…jug has been thrown against the wall。 The plate has been smashed。 The beef lies on the floor in a slime of degeneration。
Thirty…one： she sleeps。 Her head is lost in a tangle of arms。
Thirty…two： she is standing up。 She is looking at the meat again； defying it。 The hunger she feels is plain on her face。 So is the disgust。
Thirty…three。 She sleeps。
'How long now？' asked Steve。
'Five days。 No； six。'
Six days。
Thirty…four。 She is a blurred figure； apparently flinging herself against a wall。 Perhaps beating her head against it； Steve couldn't be sure。 He was past asking。 Part of him didn't want to know。
Thirty…five： she is again sleeping； this time beneath the table。 The sleeping bag has been torn to pieces； shredded cloth and pieces of stuffing littering the room。
Thirty…six： she speaks to the door； through the door； knowing she will get no answer。
Thirty…seven： she eats the rancid meat。
Calmly she sits under the table； like a primitive in her cave； and pulls at the meat with her incisors。 Her face is again expressionless； all her energy is bent to the purpose of the moment。 To eat。 To eat 'til the hunger disappears； 'til the agony in her belly； and the sickness in her head disappear。
Steve stared at the photograph。
'It startled me；' said Quaid； 'how suddenly she gave in。 One moment she seemed to have as much resistance as ever。 The monologue at the door was the same mixture of threats and apologies as she'd delivered day in； day out。 Then she broke。 Just like that。 Squatted under the table and ate the beef down to the bone； as though it were a choice cut。'
Thirty…eight： she sleeps。 The door is open。 Light pours
in。
Thirty…nine： the room is empty。
'Where did she go？'
'She wandered downstairs。 She came into the kitchen； drank several glasses of water； and sat in a chair for three or four hours without saying a word。'
'Did you speak to her？'
'Eventually。 When she started to e out of her fugue state。 The experiment was over。 I didn't want to hurt her。'
'What did she say？'
'Nothing。'
'Nothing？'
'Nothing at all。 For a long time I don't believe she was even aware of my presence in the room。 Then I cooked some potatoes； which she ate。'
'She didn't try and call the police？' 'No。'
'No violence？'
'No。 She knew what I'd done； and why I'd done
it。 It wasn't pre…planned； but we'd talked about such experiments； in abstract conversations。 She hadn't e to any harm； you see。 She'd lost a bit of weight perhaps； but that was about all。'
'Where is she now？'
'She left the day after。 I don't know where she went。'
'And what did it all prove？'
'Nothing at all； perhaps。 But it made an interesting start to my investigations。'
'Start？ This was only a start？'
There was plain disgust for Quaid in Steve's voice。
'Stephen …'
'You could have killed her！'
'No。'
'She could have lost her mind。 Unbalanced her per…manently。'
'Possibly。 But unlikely。 She was a strong…willed woman。'
'But you broke her。'
'Yes。 It was a journey she was ready to take。 We'd talked of going to face her fear。 So here was I； arranging for Cheryl to do just that。 Nothing much really。'
'You forced her to do it。 She wouldn't have gone otherwise。'
'True。 It was an education for her。'
'So now you're a teacher？'
Steve wished he'd been able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice。 But it was there。 Sarcasm； anger； and a little fear。
'Yes； I'm a teacher；' Quaid replied； looking at Steve obliquely； his eyes not focused。 'I'm teaching people dread。'
Steve stared at the floor。 'Are you satisfied with what you've taught？'
'And learned； Steve。 I've learned too。 It's a very exciting prospect： a world of fears to investigate。 Especially with inteffigent subjects。 Even in the face of rationalization …'
Steve stood up。 'I don't want to hear any more。'
'Oh？ OK。'
'I've got classes early tomorrow。'
'No。'
'What？'
A beat； faltering。
'No。 Don't go yet。'
'Why？' His heart was racing。 He feared Quaid； he'd never realized how profoundly。
'I've got some more books to give you。'
Steve felt his face flush。 Slightly。 What had he thought in that moment？ That Quaid was going to bring him down with a rugby tackle and start experimenting on his fears？
No。 Idiot thoughts。
'I've got a book on Kierkegaard you'll like。 Upstairs。 I'll be two minutes。'
Smiling； Quaid left the room。
Steve squatted on his haunches and began to sheaf through the photographs again。 It was the moment when Cheryl first picked up the rotting meat that fascinated him most。 Her face wore an expression pletely uncha…racteristic of the woman he had known。 Doubt was written there； and confusion； and deep …Dread。
It was Quaid's word。 A dirty word。 An obscene word； associated from this night on with Quaid's torture of an innocent girl。
For a moment Steve thought of the expression on his own face； as he stared down at the photograph。 Was there not some of the same confusion on his face？ And perhaps some of the dread too； waiting for release。
He heard a sound behind him； too soft to be Quaid。
Unless he was creeping。
Oh； God； unless he was …A pad of chloroformed cloth was clamped over Steve's
mouth and his nostrils。 Involuntarily； he inhaled and the vapours stung his sinuses； made his eyes water。
A blob of blackness appeared at the corner of the world； just out of sight； and it started to grow； this stain； pulsing to the rhythm of his quickening heart。
In the centre of Steve's head he could see Quaid's voice as a veil。 It said his name。
'Stephen。'
Again。
'… ephen。'
'… phen。'
'… hen。'
'en。'
The stain was the world。 The world was dark； gone away。 Out of sight； out of mind。
Steve fell clumsily amongst the photographs。
When he woke up he was unaware of his consciousness。 There was darkness everywhere； on all sides。 He lay awake for an hour with his eyes wide before he realized they were open。
Experimentally； he moved first； his arms and his legs； then his head。 He wasn't bound as he'd expected； except by his ankle。 There was definitely a chain or something similar around his left ankle。 It chafed his skin when he tried to move too far。
The floor beneath him was very unfortable； and when he investigated it more closely with the palm of his hand he realized he was lying on a huge grille or grid of some kind。 It was metal； and its regular surface spread in every direction as far as his arms would reach。 When he poked his arm down through the holes in this lattice he touched nothing。 Just empty air falling away beneath him。
The first infra…red photographs Quai